Britain awoke to an ominous weather report: Keir Starmer forecasts Nigel Farage will tear the country into artisanal confetti, ideally biodegradable, because even our doom must comply with recycling bins. The Met Office recommended umbrellas and restraint; only one of those is in stock.

I checked the crossings where policy becomes weather. Lorries idled like cows in a philosophy seminar while rumor moved faster than ministerial Wi‑Fi and left formal statements stamping their little feet at the border. A customs dog refused to sniff ideology, citing a union rule.

The United Kingdom, that whimsical archipelago held together by tea tannins and passive-aggressive nods, has survived Romans, Normans, and the metric system. But apparently it might perish from a loud man discovering the volume knob. The Queen’s English has become the King’s Karaoke.

Farage, patron saint of pubs that never close in his stories, denies it is racism; it is simply topography where foreigners are cliffs. He proposes Bring Your Own Border Day, flanked by a skiff and a flag that thinks caps lock is a personality. The plan includes a loyalty card: nine scapegoats stamped, the tenth scapegoat free.

Civil servants, sensing a hobby craft apocalypse, quietly trialed emergency measures at motorway services. A man in a hi-vis vest unspooled union jack emergency repair tape across a map like a magician attempting to reattach Scotland before someone notices the eyebrows. Two interns practiced reuniting Wales with a stapler and a hymn.

Constitutional experts compared the nation to an IKEA bookshelf named BRIT-LAG. The assembly manual is in Old Norse, the tiny Allen key is sovereignty, and every two minutes someone shouts this used to hold empires. A single missing dowel rod is Northern Ireland again.

Starmer delivered his warning in that measured tone suggesting an accountant reading haiku. His message: stop acting like a divorcee who insists the toaster is a coastline, because the coastline knows lawyers. He added that the tide is already enforcing more border policy than Parliament.

Farage held a rally where policies appeared on foam fingers and a conga line attempted to deport itself to the car park. A brass band played Rule Britannia in the key of caps lock and the boats were, ironically, inflatable. For the finale, a foghorn read the manifestos aloud.

Pop-up merchants circled the scene like vultures with contactless. One cheerful entrepreneur demoed a portable referendum generator that turns ambient outrage into ballot paper confetti for weddings, elections, or Tuesday. Children traded commemorative backstops the way previous generations traded stickers and measles.

An island geographer explained that tearing the UK apart is redundant; it is already an archipelago auditioning for a breakup montage. If you pull too hard the white cliffs become dandruff and Europe laughs in subtitles. The Thames, asked for comment, recited the Shipping Forecast and went back to carrying secrets.

In a pub focus group, voters agreed racism is bad but pints are on special and also maybe we should try a unity tax credit redeemable for hugs. The quiz machine flashed question one: what is a nation if not a stressed kettle. The losing team demanded a recount and a coaster.

Down at the port, a gull carried off a ministerial briefing like it knew the ending. If Starmer is selling glue and Farage is selling scissors, Britain remains the craft table; please form an orderly queue for refunds and remember the tape is non-refundable because it is already holding the table together. Measure twice, cut once, blame Brussels, and borrow the tape.