TCW’s Time Travelling Future Correspondent has made a short visit to the South of England in 2034. This is what he found:
‘WE ARE about to start our descent towards Starmer International Airport. Please fasten your seatbelts.’ The crackling message from the captain of the ageing BA Airbus was just about discernible. The stern gaze from a steward ensured compliance.
The UK’s one remaining airport, which I remembered as ‘Gatwick’, now has only one terminal. After some minor protests the all-powerful Committee on Climate Change have grudgingly allowed it to remain open until 2040.
It was my first return to my country of birth since my family’s departure in 2027 to a country in Eastern Europe that has managed to defy the eugenicist eco-communism contaminating most formerly ‘Christian’ countries.
On landing, with the rest of my group of tourists, I was quickly shepherded through the mostly empty customs hall to an electric bus. On board we were greeted by our tour guide, Yasmin. She explained that our visit would allow us to see tremendous strides the multi-cultural United Kingdom has made to cement its place as the world leader in decarbonisation and true democracy. She handed out masks that she insisted we wore at all times. ‘Another new covid variant has been detected,’ she explained.
Two sinister-looking men scrutinised us when we embarked. As the bus moved off I noticed that there were cameras above each seat. Yasmin told us that the curtains on the bus had to remain closed for our trip to the hotel. She did not explain why.
On arrival, I could tell from the fading carpets that the hotel had once been a Premier Inn. In my room there was a television but no kettle. The television played a loop lauding various ‘achievements’ of the Government, and interviews with Starmer and his cronies. Dinner was scheduled for seven. We were told to be prompt because the power allocation would end at 8.30. The emaciated server brought us two courses that consisted of vegetables and insects. At precisely 8.30pm the building was plunged into darkness.
After a fitful sleep interrupted by the occasional wail of sirens, breakfast consisted of a suspicious-looking muesli, a single slice of toast and a cup of chicory coffee. We then took the bus to our first destination.
As we approached the recently built Starmergrad 33 we were allowed to open the curtains to see the bus pass through the heavily guarded ‘Safety Sector’ into the first of several ‘Zones’. Yasmin enthusiastically described how each zonal resident had access to all they needed within 15 minutes of their home.
As we drove along the clean and largely traffic-free streets we were taken through various areas named after the residents. I remember zones for Somalis, Nigerians, Syrians, Iranians and one for the English. They live in barrack-type buildings called Rayner Homes.
Occasionally, we would notice a cyclist, and some glum-looking pedestrians. I saw no one over the age of 60. There are no pets – they were banned in the UK four years ago.
We were allowed to disembark at the large ‘Pfizer Wellness Centre’. As Yasmin extolled the wonderful facilities, we were kept at a distance from the queues waiting for their injections, pills and potions.
After lunch of a watery soup we were driven to marvel at an ‘Energy Zone’. We were allowed to open our curtains to observe mile after mile of wind turbines and solar farms. From memory I deduced that we were driving along the South Downs. Yasmin enthused about ‘the wonder of Net Zero’ just before we stopped to endure a long wait while the bus was recharged.
During the remainder of our short holiday we were taken to various establishments such as the Gates Nutrition Factory Number 13, the Nike Sports Stadium Number 1 (formerly Wembley Stadium), the NVIDIA Data Centre XX and were driven past the Soros People’s Assembly (the Palace of Westminster) and the Museum of Monarchy (Buckingham Palace).
On the final evening we were treated to a mushroom omelette before being taken to a theatre where we were invited to admire the benefits of multicultural Britain. We suffered performances by the Brent Drill Quartet, the Pakistani Men’s Interpretive Dance Troupe, a Transgender Guatemalan Choir and an interminable jam by the Rwandan Drum and Ukulele Orchestra.
As the bus took us back to the airport I was able to look out through a gap in the curtains before one of the sinister minders shouted at me. In the space of a few minutes I saw no animals, but derelict and abandoned houses, a work gang overseen by drones and what looked like a large prison.
The trip was every bit as disturbing as I had imagined. The Party is in complete control. The proles are cowed. The illusion of safety, the all-pervading surveillance and pollution of the mind and body by the State has destroyed their innate desire for freedom. I won’t be going back.
