The skies were permanently grey. The sea had turned into something resembling leftover gruel. The grass had started growing sideways. The King, in an act of final defiance, has become a statue in a garden centre, sold off for £99.99 with a ‘Buy One, Get One Free’ offer.
Les, once a proud 30 stone but now emaciated, still stands tall in his Union Flag onesie and still clings to his principles — mostly because he couldn’t physically let go of them without assistance. The house was now officially classified as “heritage ruins,” but to Les, it was still his kingdom. The sofa, covered in a thick layer of conspiracy theories and empty gin bottles, was his throne. The fridge, once home to half-price ready meals and unidentifiable jars, now serves as a shrine to “British values” — a single rotten potato, wrapped in a Union Jack bandana, sat in the middle.
“Les,” Sheila gasps, her face more skeleton than woman, “Me and the kids are starving. Why’s there no food in the house?”
Les looked at her, blinking slowly, like a man who’d just been told his favourite pub was now a Tesco Express. “Sent me wages to Rupert, Nigel and Tommy, this week, luv. Their knead is greater than ares. They’re fighting the real fight, don’t you see? They need the bread to… to buy more swans for the swan sanctuary, or something. It’s patriotic.”
“But Les,” Sheila coughed, her voice thick with the bitterness of a thousand austerity cuts. “Rupert Lowe’s got a fleet of yachts made of gold! Tommy’s selling commemorative piss pots of British air for £100 a pop.”
Les raised a finger, eyes narrowing in righteous fury. “Aye, and it’s bloody necessary, Sheila! It’s what Britain’s about! Do you think those lefty scum are gonna make sure we’ve got enough swans when we need ’em most? No! No, Sheila! We’ve got to support the real patriots — them who can afford to pay for the privilege of looking like a successful Brexit!”
The wind outside picked up, whispering the latest government slogans, which had now become more like desperate chants than policies. The loudspeakers boomed, as they had done since Nigel, a fag in both hands, had thanked the good people of Britain for giving him the keys to the island, but now with a tinge of robotic desperation.
Les let out a guttural laugh, as if this was some sort of joke. His children, now skin and bones, were scavenging through the ashtray for anything resembling hope. Darren, having long since given up on food, was nibbling on a broken iPhone charger, convinced it would “reconnect him to the motherland.”
“Look at ’em, Sheila,” Les said, pride swelling in his chest, “learning how to survive like true Brits. None of this soft generation nonsense. This is our legacy — the ability to make do with nothing and still scream ‘Great Britain’ as we starve.”
Sheila collapsed onto the floor. Her final thoughts were a mixture of regret and hunger. “Les… we’re… we’re the last generation, aren’t we?”
Les stroked his stubbled chin thoughtfully. “Aye, luv,” he murmured, “but at least we’re dying with dignity — like true Britons.”
The children had long since stopped talking. They were now arguing with the fridge over which was the better patriot: Winston Churchill or a Tesco Clubcard. The fridge didn’t reply, but the dead potato in the corner blinked its one remaining eye and seemed to nod approvingly.
Suddenly, the government loudspeaker crackled again, this time with a new, terrifying update.
Les stiffened. “It’s happening, Sheila. The final purge of joy. First they take our food. Then they take our laughter. The woke left are coming for our very souls.”
Sheila let out a final, dry sob. The kids were now arguing over the last bit of hope in the house, which had recently been classified as “a rare collectible” by the Department of National Morale.
Les stared out of the broken window, gazing into the fog of despair and past-their-sell-by-date aspirations.
“This is it, Sheila,” he said softly, “the last bastion of freedom. We’ve got no food, no future, but by God, we still have our principles.”
Then, just as the government drones swooped overhead, broadcasting their latest ad for Patriot’s Porridge, Les snapped into action.
“Quick, Sheila, give me your ration card! We’re going to survive this. I’m getting a tattoo of Tommy Robinson’s face on me arse — it’ll be worth something in the New Britain.”
