Brexit Breakfast

I visited a town yesterday for the first time in a while. If my name had been Clint, all I would've needed was a horse, a black hat and the stub of a cigar to chew and I'd fit right in. 

The trail into town led me down into Camp Barely Alive, past hulking industrial buildings, offices and a scattering of dilapidated eating hostels and stores. I rode past the old Cavalry barracks guarded by a new stockade and suspicious soldiers, guns at the ready. The security cameras twitched, silently noting the registration number tattooed on the flanks of my horse and let me pass.  A great welcome.

At the main street, I tied my horse to a crumpled steel post, part of a gate hanging useless and open, and walked further into the town. Dust and discarded cigarette ends greeted my boots as I followed a carpet of black spots left on newly laid paving by uncaring gum chewing citizens. Despite a new sherif in town and the former Governor expelled, it was obvious a sense of civic pride had not yet instilled itself.

Here and there were at least a few valiant and vivid flowers, hanging limply in baskets from street lampposts. They did their best to raise the mood above the sad make-do pavement repairs and discarded fast food packaging. Hunkered down and sheltering the flowers and bringing the lie to their colourful vision of prosperity, a homeless man was asleep in a doorway. Wrapped in a bag with his few belongings, the dried remains of a nights drinking ran from him like accusatory fingers towards the gutter.

I narrowed my eyes, chewed the remains of my cigar and headed for the saloon JD Spoons.

Stepping inside, the few townsfolk hiding within the gloom momentarily glanced towards me before returning to nurse their pints while sat below unwatched and huge television screens.

I moved towards the bar, the carpet clinging tenaciously to my boots, its sticky residue of countless spilt beers making itself known with each step.

I needed a stiff drink, but I needed coffee and food more.

The barkeep shrugged. “No sausages today. Or bacon. No deliveries yet. Maybe tomorrow. No HGV drivers.” He told me, handing me a mug along with another shrug. “Coffee is over there, only one machine working, help yourself.”

I sat down on a stained and threadbare seat and waited for my Brexit Benefit breakfast to be delivered. Sipping my machine-made coffee while staring at our smiling and forever cheerful and charismatic blonde leader of the free world on the TV screens, I was beginning to understand why nobody in the room was smiling along with him.