He woke to the smell of grease and smoke. Surprising, he thought, that his mind had even noticed; the dense, persistent odour had been ubiquitous since 2015. But perhaps the European wind was particularly strong today, sending a nation’s worth of fry-up into his sleepy nostrils. European. He shuddered. Disgusting.
He wondered if it really was these immigrants, whoever they were, who caused all these food shortages. Something stirred in the back of his mind. In a vague sort of way, he missed the memory of (what he thought was called) ‘curry’. But he quickly caught himself: brainwashing, brainwashing – whatever ‘curry’ might have been, it was doubtless forced upon him by the Westminster elite. Foreign. Bad.
It was only thanks to the abolition of nanny-state health warnings, censorship and continental breakfasts (bloody foreign muck) that he was truly free. Now, with the actual free market, there was as much beer, pie and sausages as any man could ask for. And none of that foreign, vegetarian rabbit-food getting in the way. Though sometimes he found himself longing for a glass of sauvignon…
It was lucky, he mused, that the NHS was perfectly able to deal with the effects of massively increased pollution and saturated fats. Even with the gargantuan tax cuts. The population had fallen so much since 2015 (what with the mass deportations, comprehensive eradication of suspected Benefit Tourists, and those health-and-safety, free-range, poofy elites making a mass exodus).
Sure, there was a huge shortage of doctors, what with homosexuals, foreigners and women all being banned from public office…but he’d rather that than putting his life in the hands of those sorts of people. And who needed the State telling you what was healthy, anyway?
So he comfortably dug into oozing bacon, sipped his tea, and turned on the Bloody British Communicator for a good helping of uncensored truth. Truth that everyone was thinking, and no one was afraid to say anymore. Unlike that left-wing BBC rubbish that used to shove its socialist agenda down our throats.
Jeremy Clarkson, Supreme Chancellor of the Exchequer, was discussing the effectiveness of using midgets to clean up the filthy mess left by sluts when they tried to drive. Some woman, probably a Feminazi, seemed mildly cross. But good old Jeremy just shouted ‘You lying slag’ to shut her up.
‘Thank God someone is finally speaking some sense’, he thought to himself over the gentle voice of the weather-man, who reported that increased levels of homosexual HIV-positive immigrants had increased the likelihood of an acid rain storm.
He grabbed his umbrella on the way out. He tried to run for the bus, but his carbon-monoxide-ridden lungs and fat-laden arteries couldn’t quite manage. He was 23, after all.
Yet he succeeded in jumping on the back. None of that bloody-bendy-bus-disabled-access-nonsense remained, though the rusty and beaten back of the bus gashed his knee quite severely. He strained to catch his breath in the smoky container of the bus. Everyone smoked everywhere. He didn’t care, even though he rasped and spluttered, distressed from the 17 second sprint.
He was his own person and didn’t need anyone looking out for him with patronizing, mollycoddling nonsense. A couple of schoolkids, disgusted at the sight of this red, sweaty, breathless man whose was knee gushing with blood, cried “What a gay gimp!” He smiled, contented by the ultimate free speech that now ruled.
A woman in an invitingly short skirt and irresistibly deep cleavage stood next to him. He gave that tight ass a nice little spank, cupping those full tits. She turned round and gracefully thanked him for that generous compliment. What a sweet little thing, he thought to himself, before his thoughts were interrupted by the unpleasant, unavoidable sight of The Camps.
Hordes of expressionless faces lined the windows of the bus, longing through the barbed wire that separated them. Occasional campfires added colour to the wasteland. Barefoot children scampered about, aimlessly.
He was several miles from the coast, but they were spreading everywhere now. The Closed Border had created this no-man’s-land of thousands – undeserving, nameless individuals desperately trying to get into the country…or was it out? He couldn’t remember. But it didn’t matter. Because they didn’t matter.
They were all foreign socialist spongers who would steal his job.
He raised his gaze to the sky. Could there be sunshine behind the smog? Perhaps the Bloody British Communicator was wrong, and the level of homosexual HIV-ridden immigrants might be lower this year.
He arrived at his stop contented and independent; filled with love for his green and pleasant land.
For a vision of 2025 Britain under The Green Party, have a look over here.