The day approaches when historians must turn to analysing Little Britain’s final, irreversible descent into the post-imperial cesspit.
Reassuringly, it won’t dawn for a long time. Next Thursday would be my best guess.
But whenever it comes, the budding Simon Schamas will identify a host of disgraces that have lent this increasingly septic isle the enticing fragrance of a sub-Saharan failed state.
Take, for instance, the barely reported fact that prisoners are dying, unattended, from such anachronistically lethal ailments as the stomach