Thread by @gathara

Mounting expedition to reach flavour-starved UK where millions survive only on boiled food. If I make it past the airport checkpoints, I hope to meet the brave African expatriates helping the country emerge from international isolation, and find inspiring local stories of hope.

I hope the Sunak regime will let me bring in humanitarian dental and flavour supplies donated by well-wishers shocked by graphic images of malnourished Britons with distended potbellies and rotting teeth whose bland diet appears to have impacted motor skills when music is played.

I am told by local fixers that the situation has worsened considerably for the native Atlantic Islander tribes with many in the oil-rich northern tribal areas demanding independence and challenging the kleptocratic rule of King Charles III from the feared minority German tribe.

What Britons need is trade, not aid. It is heartbreaking to see them locked out of the regional economic block made up of mainly sub-Scandinavian Caucasian ethnic states known as the EU which led to a crippling flavour shortage. I hope to focus global attention on their plight.

I hope I will get a chance to visit the great River Gulu, discovered by the famous Ugandan explorer Milton Allimadi in 2019, as well as catch a glimpse of the rare English primate, a specimen of which was recently sighted by Kalonzo Musyoka in the woods near the capital, London.

At the airport in the desolate wasteland of Heathrow. As our plane overflew the London settlement, we saw thousands of stone huts huddled along the banks of the Gulu. Expatriates and aid workers from our flight are now navigating checkpoints manned by forces loyal to Sunak.

The native tribespeople are not impressive physical specimens but seem hardy and resilient, maintaining a stoic dignity despite having to scratch out a living in one of the bleakest environments on the planet and enduring centuries of rule by a corrupt, kleptocratic family.

I'm told we are in the ancestral homeland of the warlike English tribe, the most populous on the island, which over centuries of tribal warfare subordinated other tribes, like the Scots and Welsh. I'm told they have a deeply held cultural disdain for modern cookery and dentistry.

It is more than an hour and a half since we landed and it appears very difficult to get past the checkpoint as the armed militia controlling the airport seem very suspicious of foreigners, especially those from non-Caucasian majority countries with deep culinary and dental roots.

A vigilante group calling itself Crimestoppers that's seemingly allied to the Sunak regime has put up signs inside the airport and set up hotlines urging people to anonymously report incidents of flavour smuggling and other suspicious behaviour, such as wide toothy smiles.

Still held up at the airport checkpoint 2.5 hours after landing. My local fixer who was to pick me up has given up and left and I'll be forced to hazard the chaotic public transport system which I'm told must cater to different groups controlling different parts of the country.

Finally made it past the airport checkpoint. Took 3 hours and it is no wonder that the country is in the state it is if this is how it treats humanitarian workers and international journalists who only want to highlight and help alleviate the suffering of local tribespeople.

A pitiful sight outside the airport. Natives don't have warm clothes. It's a chilly 18°C but it seems many can only leave their stone huts wearing shorts and T-shirts. Nature conspires against them as even the sun's heat struggles to reach these remote areas of the Middle North.

It is a reminder how privileged those of us who leave in the temperate regions of the globe close to the equator are. The inclement weather Atlantic Islander tribes endure heaps misery on an already brutal existence. No wonder they are so dependent on resources from elsewhere.

Another thing that is immediately apparent is just how many expatriates are working here. A few I managed to speak to say the natives have a poor work ethic and find it difficult to hold down jobs, preferring instead to scavenge for shellfish on the coast or hunt for bushmeat.

Powerful Interior Minister Suella Braverman, a tribal ally of billionaire strongman Rishi Sunak, has vowed to train native tribes to be lorry drivers, butchers and fruit pickers in an effort to improve living standards and replace the expatriate labor that breeds much resentment.

It's very expensive to move between urban centres, I suspect due to taxes extorted by the local groups I alluded to earlier controlling different areas. E.g. a bus ride from the airport to Luton, a settlement 60km away, costs KSh6,000! Telling there's very few natives on the bus.

Remarkably, the roads seem to be in good condition and full of cars driven by local elites. It speaks to the gross inequality in the kingdom with less than 1% of the population — mostly the corrupt ruling class and their merchant friends — owning half of the land in England.

I'll spend the night at a safehouse in Luton in what I'm told is a relatively secure part of town for expatriates. I hope to interview a few friendly natives who my fixer says may show me the inside of their tribal stone huts, which elites tell them are the same as castles.

Sadly, I'll not visit the separatist-controlled tribal districts in the north as my fixer is yet to secure safe passage from the rebels but perhaps I can still speak to some of the affected tribes to hear their grievances. I think the lack of democracy may be top of the list.

Day 2 of my journey into the heart of dankness. Made it to the safehouse yesterday where I was hosted by a selfless expatriate missionary couple from Kenya, who, with their 2 sons, have been educating Atlantic Islanders for 20 years and have even been accepted as tribe members.

I am starting to get how hard it is for the natives here where the merry dance of death and trade goes on in a still and earthy atmosphere as of an underheated catacomb; all along the formless coast bordered by dangerous surf, as if Nature herself had tried to ward off intruders.

And nature can be cruel. Yesterday the sun, whatever little of it the poor creatures get, did not set till after 10pm. It just hung in the sky as if to mock them, denying sleep, its heat ever out of reach. This morning the mockery resumed by 4am. This is nature's Guantanamo Bay.

Today I will attempt to head to Amersham, a small village near the epicenter of the crisis - London - where I'll be meeting up with other international journalists. Maybe we can find a way to slip into what the natives call "the City" and interview the money-laundering gangs.

Yesterday, strolling through Luton, I came across a shocking sight of tribal natives scrambling for what food there was at a local supermarket. I was told that on Sundays, shops close by 4pm, apparently due to a fatwa issued by Shite Christianist extremists controlling the area.

With the Sunak regime refusing to hold democratic elections and, fearful of the chaos happening in neighbouring France, clamping down on political rights, many natives are easily radicalized by whitewing groups that reject flavour and demand the expulsion of foreign aid workers.

Arrived safely in Amersham via a rickety train, a vestige of the country's past glories. Today it ferries pitiful creatures back and forth, with sad, empty eyes glued to phones desperately searching for news of lost loved ones, flavour on the black market and backstreet dentists.

Unable to escape the yoke of a kleptocratic imperialist monarchy while much of the rest of the world embraced democracy, the country has been stuck at a rudimentary 1st World level of political development, unable to ultimately evolve into a sophisticated 3rd World democracy.

Met with other foreign correspondents, some of whom had ventured deep into the interior of this troubled kingdom, learning native survival tricks. We went to a backstreet pub where I tried contraband flavour and traditional warm beer (I'm not sure but I think it had been boiled).

Native pubs have macabre, cannibalistic names - King's Arms, Saracen's Head - and it felt queasy eating there. Not taking risks, we waited till it got dark (11pm) then hurried back to our hotel. By 4.30am, the merciless sun shone through the curtains like an interrogation lamp.

Spent the day with local journalists talking about the humanitarian situation in Amersham. Many blamed ignorant, superstitious beliefs in the existence of English summers for unending cycles of clothing poverty, leading them to wear shorts and T-shirts despite the rain and cold.

After years of international isolation, British tribespeople appear to have lost the concept of paper money. Many native business establishments do not accept cash, perhaps fearful that something bearing the image of the hated corrupt aging ruler, King Charles III, is a bad omen.

Some good news. I may get to Newcastle, a town near the border with the separatist-controlled, oil-rich tribal district of Scotland, which has been impacted both by rebel activity and a crackdown on "anti-social behaviour", a euphemism for independence calls, by the Sunak regime.

I had to give up going to the capital, London, to interview the money-laundering gangs after locals advised that it wouldn't be safe. The gangs have turned the capital into a destination for dirty money from around the world, some of which lines the coffers of the Sunak regime.

This dirty money has had a devastating impact on the local economy adding to the seemingly unending list of woes confronting the benighted native Atlantic Islanders. Many have been forced from their stone huts to face cold and hunger in the streets by the inflation it feeds.

TRIGGER WARNING!
This series of images I was able to acquire from a contact deep within the Sunak regime's meteorological office offers a palpable and difficult-to-comprehend example of the hidden horror nature visits on poor souls with the misfortune to call this island home.

The images provide unmistakable proof of a world turned completely upside down where morning is night and evening is day. Can you imagine the disorientation this must cause in a population already in crisis, that has no access to flavour or dentistry except on the black market?

I ve been struck by a deadly pestilence after inadvisedly close contact with diseased natives during my expedition into the dank interior. However, my pain is nothing next to that of local tribes whose medicinemen and witchdoctors have been on strike against the Sunak regime.

Unhygienic traditional tribal beliefs and practices around excrement - such as dumping raw sewage into the Gulu - propagated through children's stories featuring characters with fecal-sounding names like Winnie the Pooh, are blamed for spreading deadly disease across the island.

This evening, despite my illness and in the interests of tribal research, I will attend a traditional feast of poached bushmeat before heading north tomorrow to the border of the occupied territory of Scotland, where tribal separatists have waged a long campaign for independence.

Sadly, I did not get permission from Scottish freedom fighters to access their territory to document the humanitarian effects of both their insurgency and the brutal response by unelected regimes in London, which have deliberately starved the oil-rich tribal enclave of flavour.

The imposition on Scotland of a Brexit ban on flavour imports from nearby sub-Scandinavian Europe has been condemned around the world as a crime against humanity. The Sunak regime has also cowed the country's Supreme Court into blocking any possibility of peaceful partition.

I've spoken by phone to brave African aid workers and expatriates inside the remote tribal district, who refuse to abandon the nearly 5.5 million Scots and are often the only thing standing between the natives and regime forces, and they paint a shocking picture of deprivation.

I was honored at yesterday's feast by being named an honorary tribal elder. My native hosts went out of their way to prepare an especially bland meal. Boiling vegetables and meat for hours till all signs of flavour are gone is a traditional expression of tremendous respect.

About to undertake the final and most perilous leg of the expedition. I'm told the wild borderlands to the north have not seen an attack but Scottish separatist rebels for a while but one never really knows when Mel Gibson might lead his tribal hordes in a charge southwards.

Boarded a crowded, rickety train to Newcastle from London. The train station was a terrible sight, teeming with thousands of desperate natives trying to flee the crisis-wracked capital. Everywhere one encountered armed uniformed militia loyal to Hindu strongman Rishi Sunak.

Unscrupulous train operators are profiteering from the misery, packing people into trains even after all seats are taken, forcing the malnourished natives to stand for 4-hour journeys. The train is full of Scottish tribespeople fleeing persecution by the war-like English tribes.

@threadreaderapp unroll