A recent submissions call from a spec-lit mag for Brexit-themed fantasies piqued my imagination. Here’s mine–and I have a couple of alternative titles: ‘Away with the Fairies’ or ‘A Perfect Fuck-Storm in a Tea Cup’.
It’s all the rage, or rather hate is in. Everyone needs a back-stabber or two, especially those in power. Failing that, a mob of fanatical supporters baying for blood is the new de rigeur. Even Lefty, the sleepy garden gnome, has a loyal pack of trolls and brick-throwers to keep him on the front patio. Lying is the new truth everyone wants to hear, especially from ministers. They are our betters and they lie better than us. They embroider their CVs on invisible cloaks and get others to do the all donkey work. All we require from them are a few sound bites in the circus ring they can never live up to.
This is the New Age, where a Prime Minister in guise of Fairy Godmother can tell us what she thinks in the turn of a kitten heel. Forget that second class geography degree, she is the all powerful, adept at steering that muddle of Heath-Robinson controls behind the curtain, otherwise known as the blessed economy. Those who were granted their wish to leave the Faery Tale Federation (the 52%) are eager to clip the wings of others and they love to hark back to the time of the Kindly Giants with Large Feet that never existed, but they are happy with the illusion, so long as the hordes from the East and the brown elves are kept out.
The PM plays a blinder, appointing a shambling fool of a foreign secretary, called Boris, a one-eyed opportunistic ogre from the foothills of Old Etonia. Boris is adept at lying and telling tall tales to foreigners is a must-have. To complete the picture, the PM puts some sad washed up right-wingers in pantomime wigs charge of our future trade interests. No one can remember their names properly and in diplomatic terms they are C-Listers, incapable of negotiating their way out of a paper bag, but their main purpose is to make the PM look clever. The Goblin Times has already pointed out that she is far from being anti-greybeard, as she has made the diminutive Rumpelstiltskin Chancellor of the Exchequer.
Of course, we are so sick of experts telling us what to do, now we are living the dream in the land of narrow-minded mediocrities, thinking we are great. The cool way is to get rich quick, asset strip pension funds and sail away like the Owl and the Pussy Cat on a yacht (or three) to some tax haven, bugger the poor nine-to-five grafters, at least they still have the collectable and cuddly Royal Sylvan Family to fawn over.
The workers only exist to be exploited by the Brothers Grimm Plc. They think it’s a shame we no longer have chimneys or mines we can send children up or down. They are keen to uphold traditional values and create some new apprenticeships–a diploma in Dickensian Urban Studies (pocket-picking, street sweeping, corpse stealing) or an internship in factory work– jerry-build some good old fashioned match factories or sweatshops in the East End and call them universities. Instead of social services, they are employing the Child Catcher to gather up all the miscreant guttersnipes, the ones whose parents can’t afford the good schools. The latter scheme was suggested by Andrea Scatterbugs, the new Home Secretary. The PM had to give her a new job as the Agriculture one she was in charge of was beset by a plague of locusts soon after she was appointed.
I’m planning my escape. I didn’t vote for this. I’m gathering supplies to bundle into my spotted handkerchief on a stick. One night I will creep Ninja-like into the walk-in-wardrobe at No 10 and steal one of the PM’s kitten heels, size nine–the size of a boat. And I will go to the white cliffs where the holiday traffic tails back and launch my skiff, using the handkerchief as a sail and escape over the narrow sea, passing some elves adrift on an overcrowded dock leaf, paddling furiously.
I will look my last on the blessed isle with no regrets. For I am a fairy and fairies can do anything to survive and live happy ever after.