What happens on June 23rd if the UK Referendum (on leaving the European Economic Community) is a dead heat? Civil War? A War of the Roses? Absurd?! Yes, but so much about this referendum is absurd. Its very nature is nonsense: as if we can choose to “leave” Europe. It should never have been framed. Yet a small world away on the other side of Europe there exists a country in turmoil. A modern industrialised nation just like Britain. In this mirror-image nation of the Ukraine half the people wanted to be part of comfortable old Mother-Russia whilst the rest wanted to be part of prosperous, modern, progressive Europe. It tore that nation apart. What will we do?
On Saturday June 25th 2016 the history books tell us that it was all over for the “United Kingdom”. Literally. Come the dead heat and a brief civil war we split the nation in two. Whilst Scotland, Northern Ireland and Wales chose their own paths; England chose division between the EU-facing East and the American-facing West. The partition occurred much as it did between India & Pakistan after independence. Although thankfully with less bloodshed, millions still got up and fled to their chosen nations. Yet these are modern times and contemporary folk demand a wall. After-all, if the new Western England was to keep out Johnny-Foreigner then some kind of partition was required. So the first journey for the newly inaugurated President Johnson was to Israel to admire the partition that keeps the Palestinians out of Palestine.
The new “Freedom” border was erected running south to north stopping short of Hadrian’s famous wall before running parallel to it to the sea. The old nation of England kept London, Sterling and the Queen whilst the newly birthed nation of “Little England” got Birmingham, Oxford and Bude. Little England had its new seat of Government on the English Riviera – that well known hot bed of independent thought. From there the new breed of True-Brits banished the unicorns of imagined Brussels-control and regained their democracy with a new Parliament stuffed with members of the old Lords. Democracy was for wimps. Soon Paignton was awash with the new Civil Servants commuting to work on the Steam Railway. As modern electronics became harder to acquire (and very much frowned upon) the new Mandarins clutched their locally-made Etcha-Sketches.
The honeymoon could not last. The new currency (dubbed the “LEB” Little English Pound) was as popular as the local currency of Zimbabwe. No Queen’s head – just a smiling Farage. But – no worries, the borders were soon closed and the divorce from Europe complete. “Sovereignty!” cried the new Churchill of the West. President Boris proudly touted his new powers to buy Bananas in bunches of five. Yet he soon found that his subjects could not find bananas in the shops. Thus started a long and quite exhausting re-negotiation of every trade treaty that Britain had carefully setup with its neighbours. The task would take 30 years and set Little England back 130 years Which was just how they liked it.
No matter.. “Sovereignty!” cried the new Churchill of the West.
Then there was the austerity. The plummeting trade and economic despair that settled upon the new Republic required some belt-tightening. “It will be worth it!” cried the new Churchill of the West as he dismantled the National Health Service and poked the bonfire of the regulations. Soon pregnant ladies could be fired at will and the poor were allowed to die and thus deplete the surplus population. Those early years bore many proud moments for the Brexiteer elite. They commandeered a fleet of JCBs to tear down the ugly wind farms whilst laying plans for a fleet of beautiful new coal-fired power-stations. Of course there were a few namby-pambies who bleated about Climate Change but they were easily brushed aside in the glorious revolution. They let them keep their solar panels after-all.
Meanwhile, over in the other England things, well, went on much as before. Families torn asunder by the migration of their Euro-sceptic brethren to the new western nation gathered occasionally at the new Wailing-wall to await news of the of their beloved’s fate in the new Republic. The smuggling of bananas becomes quite the new sport. But the Brits are a proud race and it was a while before Brexit refugees start to trickle out. First it was just one or two. Those of weak heart for the glorious new regime were soon telling their friends that they were firmly committed to Brexit but just wanted to pop over the border for some Nutella. They didn’t come back. The trickle turned to a flood. It was all too much.
So President Johnson started the next round of Brexit purification. “There is an enemy within!” cried the new Churchill of the West as he cut the turf for the new camps that would hold those with mental health issues, ie, those deluded folk who wanted back in to Europe. Soon the camps began to fill with the disillusioned and downhearted. Pogroms became the new summer sport for every true Brit of the new Republic. Anybody who looked like they might not be quite British since Roman times were looked upon with suspicion.
So all was well in the land. The people rejoiced and “Sovereignty!” cried the new Churchill of the West. A spot of re-education was all that was required to get the true-Brits back on track to recreate a perfect Little England circa 1925. The camp occupants would now be sent down the newly re-opened coal mines to dig for black-gold. The younger dissenters could be sent up chimneys. They soon learnt the true meaning of British patriotism.
Disgruntled voters soon started to punish the Brexit utopians at the polls. It was too evident to them that, just across the wall, the English were enjoying life-as-usual whilst they were suffering a Soviet-style austerity with long queues for everything from Oranges to spare parts for Renault cars. So that nice Mr Gove came up with a stunning plan that was perfect in its Orwellian simplicity. Since they were now a truly democratic nation (free of outside influence) there was no need for nuisance elections. Or other political parties for that matter. Or Parliament. Had not the Brexiteers won a referendum? (Well, nearly.) All the new Western Utopia required was for some well trained British Mandarins to make all the new rules and enforce them. The solution was perfect and the new Churchill of the West declared a 1000-year Utopia free of nasty Brussels diktats.
British diktats would clearly do.
Yet problems remained. A long coastline lead to a lot of boat people and the Republic of Ireland was only a short trip across the sea. So President Johnson met with his new best buddy President Trump for a chin wag. Thus it was decided. The new Western Republic Utopia of Little England would come under the wing of North America as a quasi-State of the federal US. So for the sake of a lot of nice shiny gunboats, a Trade Treaty and a mutual-defence agreement the new Utopia now looked to Washington for guidance on all matters.
So come Thanksgiving 2030 Gove and his President got stuck into their imported American Turkey and toasted the infinite wisdom of their choices. Gove bet Johnson one dollar that Trump would be over for Christmas for a tour of the Camps. Again. They could have another talk about the ultimate solution. Madagascar was such a nice destination for these unwanted folks and their re-unification wishes. Good riddance to them.
The President lent over to his confidant and told him that those traitors on the other side of the Great British Wall of Freedom had arranged rock concerts under its shadow. The President of the EU had even asked the President of Little England to “Tear down this wall!”.
Gove shuddered at the thought. They clinked their bottles of Budweiser and whispered “Sovereignty…” whilst both gave a knowing nod.