“Noooo! It can’t be. But it’s not … a dream. Trump’s won. He’ll be President of the …. Oh my God! How can they have let that happen? First Brexit and this Trump election almost trumps it! Bleeding populism! And French elections next year! … President Le Pen! … Aaaah!”
 
In town people were trudging to work, eyes to the ground. Nobody smiled. Some clutched newspapers that assumed a Clinton victory and fronted photos of smiling Hilary and proud-looking Bill and Chelsea, slightly out of focus, behind.

Then, I saw it. This pop-up shop. Mmmm, must have just popped up, I thought. ‘Fantasy Road Trips Company. The Real Immersive Experience,’ it said. 
  
Just what’s needed - bit of escapism. But which to choose? ‘Route 45 with Kerouac’? ‘Easy Riding with Denis Hopper’? ‘The Zen road to Katmandu’ ? or … mmm, yes, ’The Great 18th Century Jaunt - take the long road to York in a well-sprung stagecoach.’

So I signed up, was put in Georgian garb - tight breeches, powdered wig and all. ‘Where’s my 3D headset?”  I asked the assistant. “Not needed sir. Just go through that door there - the big matt black metal one. Your coach has arrived.” 

“What a well turned gent! Not a pock on ‘is visage. Shift yer bob an’ come on in the dilly.” Two well rouged ladies pulled me aboard the carriage.

As we bumped and bobbled our way along a muddy track, I complained of feeling sick. “Where’s this Great North Road then?”

“Oh, sir, you be a-witting with us,” the ladies giggled. “We’re on it already. Your motionspinny'll soon pass.”

Suddenly came a great bang. An acrid smell (I learned later I’d niffed blackpowder) wafted into our compartment.

‘Yer money or yer life!’ a voice boomed.

‘And may I be asking, sir, who you be?’ replied our coachman.

‘George Davenport at yer service, sir. An’ I'm requiring of thee to call out any gentlemen, or … ladies … as is in yer carriage.

“God’s pantaloons! The infamous George Davenport, the Leicester Highwayman.” 

“Oooh,” chorused my two carriage companions. “We was hopin’ for a land pirate. But Georgey Davenport! We’re told he’s one of the best - if you know what we mean.”

“You look just like Adam Ant, or Dick whatsisname, Dick … Turpin.” I called out to him.

“Turpin were taken up the ladder to bed more’n fifty year since.” 

“What ladder? What bed?” I asked.

‘ … dangled in the sheriff’s picture-frame, flumped on the gibbet.’

‘Oh - you mean executed?’

‘Are you groggified or what? I be Davenport the Dandyman of the Highway, sir. Known the world over.”  

“We’ve heard lots about you, Georgey,” interjected the ladies.

‘Yer purse and yer valuables … now!’ the highwayman ordered. I handed over my wallet. He pulled out a few notes. 

“Not paper stuff, pudding head! Proper money. Coins. I can’t be goin’ to Coutts in London to exchange these, now can I? My delineation hangs in every public square. Though now I look at ye, you could pass for that depiction yerself.”

“Oh aye, you’re right there, George. He has the exact same hang-gallows look,” agreed the coachman.

“Anyways - I’ll take yer florins, yer guineas, yer crowns!”

I proffered him my Barclaycard. “Do you accept V…Visa?”

“Hurry up, big Georgey, we need help unlacing our stays,” came the call from inside the carriage. “And unbuckling our penniers. We be ladies after all.”

“Well … I’ll take yer watch, then.” 

I handed him my Seiko Chromatic. 

“D’ye take me for a beef head? It’s not even gold.”

“It’s titanium,” I answered, “Super light, more practical than stainless steel, and yet highly durable.”  

He crushed the instrument under his heel, his spurs glinting in the morning sun.

“Tell ye what, though, driver. And you too, girls. I’m getting a bit old for all this …”

“Oh no!” chorused the two women leaning out the carriage window.

“No … no, not too old for that, girls. But, well … this highwayman lark.”

 “I’ve an idea,” said the coach driver handing me his flask. “Here - sip this.” Rum fustian I was told later …


                 … “Seditious and traitorous,” the judge pronounced next morning. “You said in the tavern last eve you wished the Democrats had won in America and talked of an arrogant demagogue. Then you said George was a thief. We've many witnesses - including these two most respectable ladies with their gentleman companions. How dare you, George Davenport, speak of His Majesty King George like that? I admit he has the odd odd moment - but he has responsibilities - especially now we’ve pulled out of our treaties in Europe. And thank goodness. Britain for the English is what I say. So, first thing on the morrow … now where did I put that , ah yes, my black kerchief. … you’re to be hanged by the neck until ... erm ... etcetera. ” 

Only then, in my hungover state, did I realise he was addressing me.


“This Road Trip Experience is a bit overdone.” I complained to the figure sitting in the dark corner of my cell. “So how did you get here, then?”

“Same as you - via the Immersive Experience Portal. Last June. I was fed up after the European Cup.”

“Portal? You mean … we’re actually here, in 1792? And I’m really to be hanged tomorrow morning?”

“ ‘fraid so."

A red-jacketed soldier entered. A sergeant.

“Order from Lord North, the PM. We’re conscripting all able-bodied felons for the war that’s starting with France against their new populist government, just like the one in America! So, come on me boys, let’s get marchin’.”