20:00 — Endgame

In a suite in the Wetherspoons Grand, high above the empty streets of New Arcadia, Mr. Enzensberger is trying to kill me.

Moments earlier, we had been chatting amicably. Now he is pushing my head against a wall and punching me in the face.

“Wake up!” He yells, as the blows land — “Wake up from your dream!”

09:30 — Boris Island

It’s a big week for Britain. This is the 10th anniversary of our departure from the EU and the 11th year of Prime Minister Boris Johnson. The country has much to celebrate. Over the next few days journalists will be flying in from across the world to discover what their countries can learn from us.

The official name for London’s nearly completed fourth airport is “Thames Estuary International” but everyone calls it Boris Island. It’s a fitting starting point for any tour of Britain in 2029.

The official name for London’s nearly completed fourth airport is “Thames Estuary International” but everyone calls it Boris Island. It’s a fitting starting point for any tour of Britain in 2029.

I am here in my capacity as an official guide. My guests come through the arrivals gate and introduce themselves as Martin Enzensberger and Alois Tutzauer from the AFZ news network in Berlin.

“Fantastic terminal!” Mr. Tutzauer marvels as we head to the taxi rank. “Is it true that it has gone three times over the original budget?”

“Rome wasn’t built in a day, and I’m fairly certain it didn’t come in on budget either!” I say, parroting one of my favorite Boris Johnson quotes.

The two men are impressed with how empty everywhere is. I tell them this is what a country looks like, when you take back control of immigration. They nod thoughtfully and look at each other.

We climb into one of the new Boris Cabs and as we head onto the motorway, I hand them their itinerary. It is going to be a busy few days. Today we are visiting “New Arcadia” — our purpose-built capital in Leicestershire. Tomorrow we are off to see the Boris Continental, a cable car system that goes to the Channel Islands. Then there are visits to the BorisCare maternity unit in Westminster and Free Europe’s biggest fracking site in the Peak District.

“Will we be able to see the Boris Barricade in Cumbria? Or is that all hush hush?” Mr. Enzensberger asks.

Of course, everyone knows about the “Great Symbolic Gesture” that Boris ordered be constructed in the north after Scotland declared independence. Unfortunately, a concerted fake news campaign by the Scots to discredit the PM has sought to turn it into something else.

“It’s no secret,” I say. “It’s not even a wall — more a big concrete fence. Nothing wrong with protecting your borders, it’s what nation states do.”

“But is it keeping the Scots out or you in?” Mr. Tutzauer asks and it’s such a ridiculous thing to say that I start to laugh in his face.

“Scotland is in the EU!” I remind him. “Why would anyone in Free Europe want to go and live there?”

“Free Europe?”

“The Economic Union of England, Wales and Jersey!” I say. “The most successful trade bloc in the Western Hemisphere. I thought you were journalists.”

The two men look uncomfortable. It seems incredible that they’ve never heard of Free Europe. We travel on in an embarrassing silence — save for the roar of the taxi’s engine.

But the silence doesn’t last long.

“What the actual f**k?” Mr. Tutzauer is out of his seat, pointing ahead — dumbfounded.

He has had his first glimpse of the Sovereignty Arch that straddles the M25 at Grays. Topped with a gold-plated replica of a Mark II Spitfire, this grand tribute to our independence was commissioned in Boris’ first term and finally completed last year. At its sides our island story is told — from Boudicca to Brexit — on giant marble reliefs.

They want to take a closer look, but if we are going to make New Arcadia by lunchtime we need to press on. And anyway, I’m told the visitor center has been shut due to “the risk of falling masonry.”

12:30 — New Arcadia

When the architect Oscar Niemeyer designed Brasilia in the last century, he fashioned it in the shape of a plane. England’s new capital is laid out like an enormous double-decker bus.

Other journalists have arrived ahead of us, and one of them greets Mr. Enzensberger.

“I’ve not seen such empty roads since I was in Cuba 30 years ago,” I overhear them say, as the three men move toward the hotel.

England’s new capital is laid out like an enormous double-decker bus.

“And did you see the buildings on the way here? Everything was boarded up. And the shanty town — did you see that — in the field off the motorway.”

“Yes,” one of the Germans whispers back. “It’s even worse than I imagined. Our guide is like something out of the Hitler Youth.”

Perhaps they are just hungry after the long journey.

Unfortunately, Mr. Tutzauer hasn’t purchased any ration credits at the airport and is unable to order anything off the menu. Mr. Enzensberger is determined to get the “house special fish and chips,” even though the waiter keeps telling him that there isn’t any cod.

Under Business Secretary Nigel Farage, the economy has boomed. When the failing banking, car manufacturing and tech sectors left in the early 2020s, the U.K. fell back on traditional industries like open-cast mining, bridge building and fishing. Having regained control of our territorial waters, trawlermen were able to net as much as they wanted and exports and domestic consumption rocketed.

But last year, catches were found to be mysteriously down. It soon became clear why. Icelandic fishermen had found a way of luring our stocks into their own waters.

Matters escalated rapidly. The EU imposed sanctions, and war was only averted thanks to the direct intervention of President Kardashian of the United States.

Matters have now been resolved, on Britain’s terms, and Boris hailed the subsequent peace treaty as proof “that we are not about to be bossed around by a bunch of Viking inbreds or mussel-bothering bureaucrats in Brussels.”

The sanctions have meant a temporary restriction on the availability of food.

“There was no fish yesterday, and there is no fish today,” the exasperated waiter tells Mr. Enzensberger for the fifth time, “but there’s always the chance of fish tomorrow."

16:00 — The grand tour

The world’s press clamber into a Boris Bus and we head into New Arcadia. Soon we are driving down the wide-open boulevards and everyone is marveling at the architecture.

I point out the sites of the future Ministry of Togetherness, the Ministry of Hope and the Ministries of Make and Believe.

I turn sharply and am about to respond — when our driver hits a large cow and I am thrown to the other end of the bus.

“Why is no building work being done?” an Australian journalist asks.

“It’s a holiday!” I explain.

“I heard Johnson ran out of money,” someone else shouts over the din of the heating unit. It’s fake news, of course, and I tell him as much. It’s a day off. Everyone is celebrating the 10th anniversary of Brexit.

“Where?” someone asks.

“Well, in their homes, of course!”

“But there are trees literally growing out of the buildings. The cranes and machinery are all rusted up. Don’t you think something might be wrong?” Mr. Enzensberger yells, and I have started to have enough of this man. I turn sharply and am about to respond — when our driver hits a large cow and I am thrown to the other end of the bus.

19:00 — Aperitif

When I get back to my room from the medical center there is a conciliatory note from the Germans, inviting me up to their suite for a drink.

The lift is broken, so I take the stairs and when I arrive, only Mr. Enzensberger is there.

He asks me if my head is OK and pours me a beer. He seems intrigued that a cow could have ended up wandering in the center of our capital city. I explain that since Brexit many of our farmers have been able to retire and have left their land to pasture.

“You mean abandoned,” he says. “What you mean is that they’ve gone bust and been abandoned.”

“Well, that’s a lie!” I say “that might be the story in the fake news, in failing Europe, but it’s just not true. The farms have been returned to pasture and that’s all that’s happened.”

He tries to interrupt me, but I’ve had quite enough of this smirking individual. “You say this country is failing? Where’s your evidence? Are you blind? Did you miss the airport, the Sovereignty Arch?”

I tell him about the traitors in our midst, seeking to destabilize Britain. I tell him about the dark money being smuggled in to fund anti-Boris groups. I point out that he — a German of all people — has no right to come to the oldest democracy on Earth and lecture us on democracy.

I tell him about the traitors in our midst, seeking to destabilize Britain. I tell him about the dark money being smuggled in to fund anti-Boris groups.

I understand that people might struggle with the scale of our success but his jealousy is pitiable. I raise my voice further. Can’t he see how stupid he is? How brainwashed by the lies of the EU! Doesn’t he know who won World War II?

And it’s at that moment that Mr. Enzensberger loses his self-control and steps toward me, fists at the ready.

07:30 — The morning after

“Are you OK, Darren?” Mr. Tutzauer sits down beside me in the breakfast bar. “It will just be me today. Martin has decided to go back early. He has some, er, family issues to sort out. He wanted me to say sorry again on his behalf — about last night.”

Family issues. It all makes sense now.

“It must be hard,” I say “coming here from the Germany and witnessing all that we have achieved. All that we can provide for our people.”

I gaze out at the great tall towers of Boris’s New Arcadia and the new city brimming with hope: “Oh I think you’ll find,” I say, “that we’ve only just begun.”

“Yes,” Mr. Tutzauer murmurs into his porridge, “perhaps it was that. Anyway — he asked me to give you this.”

He hands me a wad of notes. Euros wrapped tightly in a rubber band. It’s strictly illegal to take them and what need would I have of hard currency anyway? But I see that he and Mr. Enzensberger are trying to make a conciliatory gesture, so I look quickly around and out of courtesy slip them in my pocket.

We eat our breakfast in silence as the cows walk past our window in the morning light. After a few minutes he sets down his spoon and pushes his plate to one side. He leans toward me and whispers: “Quite seriously, for a moment, how much longer do you think you can drag this madness out?”

I gaze out at the great tall towers of Boris’s New Arcadia and the new city brimming with hope: “Oh I think you’ll find,” I say, “that we’ve only just begun.”

Otto English is the pen name used by Andrew Scott, a writer and playwright based in London.