Fellow citizens of this once-great motoring nation, I implore you—rise up! Defend my sacred, God-given right to blast freely down the Queen’s highways without the meddling tyranny of taxation or the unblinking, Orwellian gaze of speed cameras. Until my personal freedoms behind the wheel are restored, how can any of YOU truly be free?

Yes, my liberties—my inalienable rights to 90 in a 30—are being suffocated by a choking tangle of red tape and clipboard-wielding bureaucrats who think a pothole is an acceptable substitute for a road. The Ministry of Transport? More like the Ministry of Tyranny.

Potholes to the left of me, speed cameras dead ahead, and speed limits to the right—here I am, stuck in the middle with bureaucracy. I say to you, noble Britons: rise up and be counted! The roads are occupied, not by foreign armies, but by regulation and common sense.

Speed cameras, those cold, omnipresent robots, claim to protect us—but do they? No! They lurk like sentient toasters, ready to flash at the slightest pedal twitch, siphoning your hard-earned money for the crime of getting somewhere quickly.

This is not about safety. This is not about order. This is about control—and I, for one, shall not be ruled by an aluminium pole with a lens.

Whenever I drive across the UK, I feel miserable. Indeed, the UK looks miserable—a reflection, perhaps, of a fading empire: broken roads, a broken society, and the insufferable machinations of feudalistic control, now manifested as the dreaded penalty notice.

The United Kingdom, once a motoring nation, now just a queue of speed cameras. Rise up, my fellow UK citizens! Make driving great again! Challenge the authoritarians ruining my motoring experience. Rise up—and make life easier for me, so that I may be free… to free you.