Here’s this week’s entry for Friday Fictioneers! I understand that a few of you might not understand the story if you don’t follow British politics, but I wanted to put it up anyway because it’s the first time I’ve tried to write something like this.
Edit: After writing this, I went to the pub with my mates, had a pint, and watched some morris dancers. I’m not joking.
Nigel Farage sat in his office, smiling at the paperwork that had been delivered this morning.
His assistant looked out of the windows at the wilderness that had once been London, a lone trolley rolling down the streets like metallic tumbleweed.
“It’s looking rather…” The assistant finished in his mind with the word bleak.
“Fantastic!The immigration level is at a record low!” Farage replied, beaming. “This is truly now a Great British Isle for Great British People!”
The assistant didn’t dare mention that, since UKIP came to power, the “Great British People” had moved to Poland. Better living conditions.