There’s been a lot of talk about fleeing in the last few days, so we asked our writers if they did indeed have an actual plan for the end of the world. (Of course they did.)
I’ve read that in the event of a zombie apocalypse, you should cut off your hair and wear only Lycra to make you less grabbable by the undead. What about if I put my hair up in a bun and could it be a vest and leggings rather than, like, a catsuit? In which case, I’m ready for a zombie attack on all my days off.
I think I could handle myself: I always cut my legs (and toes) while shaving, my blade of choice would be a Gillette Venus. I don’t think I’d be too squeamish in the face of innards and entrails as I’ve had some pretty heavy periods in my time. Also, I loved tinned food and am happy not to wash for years.
I feel sorry for all you guys without a cast-iron plan. I really do.
Luckily for my immediate friendship group I have one hell of a plan for the zombie apocalypse – and they’re included. I need their smart brains and fit bodies to help me build things and then we can bang our way to a new beautiful and intelligent population.
I grew up on Anglesey and my parents still have our farm there and that’s exactly where I’m headed. I will drive there in some cool van I’ve stolen that’s full of my friends, like a well-dressed Scooby Doo episode.
When we arrive we secure the perimeters (and then just get hammered?) My parents don’t drink but thanks to British people feeling the need to buy Christmas presents for people even if they don’t really know them, they have a cabinet full of the stuff.
I mean eventually we’ll work the land and all that, but Anglesey has one huge advantage besides being very beautiful. It’s full of old people. That means even if it’s fast zombies (28 Days Later-style) I can outrun them. If it’s slow zombies I can probably walk backwards away from them and still be fine. As long as I don’t mention the EU because in that respect the over 60s have been uncharacteristically mobilised and I don’t want to get bitten by an octogenarian because I dared to mention straight bananas.
“Eventually the EU will ask us to rejoin because of me. I will say ‘NO!’ but it will only be a joke and then we will laugh and hug and have a Europe-wide dance party.”
Finally. My longstanding – and completely true – joke, that I don’t have a pension but I do have an apocalypse plan, has stopped looking as dumb as it once did.
When I took my nephew to the Tower of London, it occurred to us that it’s not a bad starting point if you are going to ride out the end of the world. It’s well fortified, it has a huge stack of weapons, it’s got food supplies, it’s got trained ravens, it’s got a back door to the river Thames if you need it and there’s loads of puzzles in the gift shop if we get bored. Plus, I like the idea of turning away bankers fleeing from the City while eating fudge and wearing the Crown Jewels.
That said, the end of the world can occur at any time, so I’m happy to change it on the hoof. In fact, on Friday, I was in a huge queue in a petrol station in Cambridge (74 per cent REMAIN – I love you) and a conversation broke out about who had voted what (100 per cent REMAIN). And I thought, if the world ended now, this wouldn’t be the worst place to be. At least I wasn’t surrounded by racists. And I was surrounded by snacks.
The first thing I’m going to do is save up all my tears in a big keg. I’m losing about three litres of tear-water per hour in the wake of the results and I don’t want all those tears to go to waste seeing as though soon water will be currency with the pound becoming worthless.
I will use my keg of tears as leverage to buy myself in to Number 10. Once I have got Cameron out (he was hiding in the wardrobe of the spare room) I will declare myself Prime Minister. I will draw a face on my tear-keg and make it Chancellor of the Exchequer.
The United Kingdom will enter a new era of prosperity and unity, once more becoming an example to the rest of the world. Eventually the EU will ask us to rejoin because of me. I will say “NO!” but it will only be a joke and then we will laugh and hug and have a Europe-wide dance party.
I regularly have Zombie Apocalypse Survival Dreams, and the two main priorities my subconscious always gives me are:
a) Find a safe, secluded, well defended spot to shore yourself and your family up
b) Find a good supply of clean knickers.
I think my dreams definitely have it right on both of these. In one Zombie Dream, I was staying in a remote farmhouse with a ready food supply and had blocked the one road leading to it with booby-trapped buses, which again seemed like a very good idea – I think Dream Me is some sort of survivalist genius. Knicker supplies were largely raided from derelict department stores. Well, nobody else is going to use them now.
“The people outside are changed. Mostly in brogues, baggy trousers and braces, swing dresses and pin curls saying, ‘Good day’ or ‘Cor blimey gov’ner it’s a right pea souper’ and shit like that.”
The End of Days has begun. The nauseating march of Trumpmania towards your children’s freedom is underway. Soon we’ll all be firing our shotguns into a sky black with radiation, utterly surprised at how we all got here. So you want to know what I suggest? Let’s grab Liz, go to the Winchester, have a nice cold pint, and wait for all of this to blow over.
I stake out a Deli France kiosk and purchase every last croissant much to the irritation of the queue behind who huff and whisper about my rudeness and wanting their country back in a comfortingly familiar passive aggressive manner. I scoop them into an Aldi bag for life and drive off in my Renault Clio to find sanctuary.
My home for now is a hastily abandoned Nando’s. Soon it will become a Harry Ramsdens. I don’t have much time! The cogs of Big Ben whirr backwards to 1955. Smog and cold war dread envelop every inch of the city.
The people outside are changed. Mostly in brogues, baggy trousers and braces, swing dresses and pin curls saying, “Good day” or “Cor blimey gov’ner it’s a right pea souper” and shit like that.
I have salvaged from the pre-Referendum world some trainers, jeans and a slogan T-shirt that I am too old to wear according to Elle magazine. I want to look like Marty McFly in Back to the Future, all space age and futuristic but it’s more like a disappointed special constable trying to blend in at a Zayn Malik concert.
In truth nothing much had changed.
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