Prozac Britain

The iced winter air, so invigorating
Porridge and cold meat, finely sliced
Their textures set my pulses racing
British food – so delicately spiced
We watch a flower open, a slowed-down bug
In a state of opiated innocence
Now we are safe, pleasure is our drug
And sensuous, value-free experience
The cloying touch of freezing mud
Cold slate, sharp thistles, grey cloud
We say ‘it's good; it's all good’
We own nothing; frowning is not allowed
Once stoics, we endured them, they were bad
Now they are gone, we love them and are glad


I was in Pret A Manger in Stamford Street, London SE1, close to where I work. Everyone was smiling. How are you? I'm good thanks. I'm really good. I realised, at that moment, that the British have changed. Once, we were miserable, curmudgeonly and highly critical of anything ‘foreign’. Now, we have swung to the opposite extreme. We enjoy everything; we are open-minded and positive; nothing is bad. Of course, this is a far better collective state of mind to be in than our previous one and I have always advocated putting Prozac in the water supply. My little sonnet is merely an observation of how Britain has changed in my lifetime – for geopolitical as much as for psychosocial reasons.