May 6th looms on the horizon. The Goodship Britain is adrift in a sea of red-tape and high taxes. Her bow is sinking under the weight of the debt washing over her forrard decks.
The Captain is drunk with power - he clings to the tiller wildly swinging from port to starboard an insane glint in his one good eye - he cares not that the ship is rudderless and drifting into treacherous waters without purpose. He cares only that he clings onto the helm.
A mutiny stirs among the crew. They look to the young man who would usurp the demented Captain - but he is nowhere to be seen. He is dangling in the ships wake, unable or unwilling to find the courage to hack away the politically correct barnacles that fester below the water line.
A European current has the ship in it's grasp. The battered and broken hull is tugged ever closer into the heart of swirling menace that cares not who pilots the ship - wanting only to devour her.
Below-decks the passengers quietly sit and wait. Some of them shout to their fellows 'We can end this madness' But their apathy is overwhelming. They have witnessed all of the ships crew gorge on their meagre supplies as they make do with hard-tack and expensive rum.
The Captains spys are everywhere and the stench of fear is ripe in the bowels of the sinking ship. They quietly sit with their heads clutched in their hands and wonder to each other in whispered tones. 'How did it get to this...'