DISPATCHES

London, UK - ​It hit me somewhere between the Tesco freezer aisle and the suspiciously cheerful bloke trying to flog me a "cost-efficient" energy tariff at nine in the morning. Britain, the scrappy, tea-fuelled, rain-soaked island I grew up believing was a dependable old beast, now feels like a flustered aunt rummaging through her handbag for a purse that's already been nicked. You can feel it in the bones of the place, a deep, grinding, nationwide wince. Everything costs more, so much more, and everyone is pretending it's normal, like we've all just collectively agreed to ignore the smell of burning coming from under the floorboards.

By Martin Foskett / Dispatches / Knelstrom Media

​There's a peculiar sort of rage that festers in people when they see someone else shining. It's not the polite, civilised kind of annoyance that makes you tut into your tea. No, this is something primal, feral even. You can smell it on them, that bitter scent of unfulfilled potential masked with cheap aftershave and self-righteous disdain.