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Our Crack Snapper
NOTE: the following document was found in an abandoned time machine. Snapper's assumption is that it dates from about twenty years into a post Brexit future. Remember the old question about the price of a pint of milk? Usually asked by cheeky trouble-making interviewers to supposedly out-of-touch politicians who, if they were the usual Tory party suspects (with a private income), would mumble and harrumph and then get it wrong. Well, embarrassingly, that's now me. The trouble is getting a pint of milk no longer entails rolling out of bed into the nearest newsagent, but donning waterproofs, getting the boat out on the water, and a long row to the other side of the valley (which used to be a motorway), where a farmer very kindly fills a pint bottle fresh from the udder. How much is a pint these days? Depends on what I have to offer. A pound of apples? A packet of nails? An old hammer? Barter and exchange. But who knows now what the real cost of a pint is? And if that sentence also reminds you of beer, forget about it. The hop fields were the first to go under during the great floods caused, as we know, by post Brexit governments cutting corners on environmental safety standards. In fact standards of all sorts were sacrificed to the deals we had to make with world leaders like Trump who would only lend us support with all sorts of nasty strings attached. And, of course, when those strings snapped the whole country quickly became the kind of island a lot of people rapidly decided to leave. Those who stayed, of course, found it amusing that our ‘leavers’ were suddenly the new pariahs of the world: the immigrants no one wanted. And, as the majority of the population took to ships, boats and any other seaworthy craft to destinations as varied as France, Holland, Spain, Ireland and The Med there were many on all sides of the world who experienced a brief moment of what is sometimes referred to as schadenfreude. Believe me, the irony was not lost on many in Africa and the Middle East. That said for those of us who stayed life did start to resemble something out of a late Hollywood disaster movie or any other fictional book or film where people suddenly had the developed world of plenty/consumerist rug pulled from under them. Limited utilities, no consumer goods, food stuffs based on seasonal availability, and a much colder, darker, harsher reality than in the days before we left Europe without a deal and decided to find out what ‘going it alone’ and ‘taking our country back’ really meant. There have been times when those of us who stayed, the ‘stayers’, really thought the ‘leavers’ were the worst kind of Brit. However, time has blunted such feelings. More to the point, how much is a bag nails? A pound of apples? An old hammer? Or, yes, a pint of milk?