On the morning of November 1st, a whirlpool will appear in The Thames, flames and big red horned Satan will emerge and take up residence on the top of Buckingham Palace (with Brian May forced provide the tunes).
All kittens will be born with 6 heads and 3 tails.
All children's heads will started spinning while projectile vomiting green sludge and they'll refuse to eat their dinner, seeing the last of the nation's food supply scraped into the composting caddy.
Every chemist, supermarket and small shop will simultaneously be out of paracetamol forever and everyone's eyes will pop from their untreatable headache.
Only tampons with drawing pins in them and impregnated with salt will be available because, you know, shitty incompetent British workers are the only ones making them now.
November 2nd, every person who can stand up will run out into the street and start offing their neighbours so they raid their food cupboard and pinch their bog roll.
November 3rd, UK will burst into flames, come loose from it's mooring and explode off into space heading for the sun.
Panic, panic, panic.
I am sick of hearing/seeing/reading it.
How about we wait and see, then bloody well cope with it because in reality we can do nothing else.