Best of British Cluck

Until the Recrudescent Imperium of Westminster, Gibraltar and the Falkland Islands finally achieves the glory of global outwardness, rather than merely being a member of the biggest trading bloc on the planet, red tape will continue to strangle us and food hygiene will continue to be treated as something people are entitled to expect even if they lack the gumption to own a personal chef. Regulators are interfering with the nation's chickens, as though the country that beat the Boche with help only from the USSR, the United States and an empire that covered half the globe would balk at consuming meat prepared under conditions that were less than surgical. Once we have opened ourselves to the chlorinated delights of the Trumpsterland franchise, things will be very different. Any chicken which has passed its sell-by date will get a quick dip in the nearest swimming pool before being coated in brand-new cellophane and thrust dynamically back onto the shelves; always provided that the said chicken happens not to be among the headless, featherless, gutless poultry responsible for the Department for Having Exited the European Union.