Once upon a time, in a land far, far away (called Britain), a person could spot a good idea, act upon it, make a few quid, and maybe even enjoy themselves without being hunted down by an army of clipboard-wielding jobsworths shouting, “You can’t do that here mate!”
Not anymore. Now, it’s the modern British motto!
These days, if you so much as breathe near a sniff of joy, some overpaid, underqualified moron in a hi-vis jacket or on a council hotline will appear—usually just after you’ve clicked “Buy Now” or signed a lease—and announce that, sadly, due to x reasons, it’s actually not allowed.
Look out, It’s Captain Jobsworth!
You’ve got a nice idea for a pop-up café? Brilliant. Oh, what’s that? You didn’t fill in Form 27B/6 to get a Temporary Hot Beverage Dispensation Certificate from the Department of Utter Bollocks? Shut it down.
Selling handmade soap from your kitchen? You’ll need a cosmetics licence, a fire risk assessment, and a six-month course in Advanced Lather Theory.
Fancy buying a small flat to rent out and give yourself a bit of financial stability? Sorry love, the taxman’s already hidden in the attic, sharpening his knives.
And That’s Not All…
It’s like the whole country’s being steered off a cliff by Captain Jobsworth. Anything remotely pleasurable or profitable is immediately sniffed out and stomped on by someone who’s never had an idea of their own but really enjoys telling other people what to do.
And it’s not just work or money. Try having fun. Go on. You try it. Book a holiday? “That’s peak season, ma’am, and you didn’t tick the extra oxygen surcharge box.”
Have a glass of wine? “Ooh careful now, have you consulted the latest government guidelines on acceptable fun levels for women over 60?”
Buy a bloody hot tub for your garden? “Planning permission. Environmental Impact statement. Water usage survey. Noise pollution monitor. Sudden death risk assessment and a license for controlled leisure activities because the neighbourhood seagulls might be offended.”
We’ll Take That, Thank You!
You’d think they’d want us to succeed. Make a living. Contribute to society. Have the occasional moment of smug joy. But no. It’s as if someone, somewhere, decided that pleasure is a punishable offence and the only acceptable state of being is “mildly stressed and skint.”
You know it’s bad when even the criminals are having a hard time. Too much admin. Even fraudsters have to fill out a compliance form now. “Please detail your intended scam, source of fake documents, and desired laundering method and send it to the Department of Abject Misery…… and in triplicate.
The best bit? If you do manage to navigate the surreal maze of red tape, get your thing going, and make so much as a fiver—you’ll be taxed, means-tested, and regulated into oblivion. You’ll get a letter every other day from HMRC, the council, DEFRA, your local MP, and possibly the Pope, all asking for their cut. Because how dare you be enterprising without approval from the Ministry of Reduced Joy
There’s No Hope!
And don’t even think about getting rich. Oh no. You’re now officially “part of the problem.” You’ll be expected to apologise for your success and donate your profits to an organisation called “Stop People Like You.”
So here’s my plan: I’m going to lie in a dark room eating wine gums and waiting for permission to live. Because apparently that’s all we’re allowed to do now. No ambition, no initiative, no joy. Just exist. Quietly. Preferably in beige
Welcome to Britain…..now please fill out form F/ku-01 to confirm your despair 🙈
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