In a development that has sent shockwaves through the chattering classes and left the gin cabinet dangerously depleted, the post-scarcity economy has officially arrived. Material goods are now free. Yes, you read that correctly. Free. Like the air we breathe, except the air is still controlled by a shadowy cartel of hipster terrarium owners and their passive-aggressive Instagram captions.

Let us take a moment to absorb the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of this. Decades of neoliberal dogma, of trickle-down economics that never even dripped, of austerity measures that turned the National Health Service into a glorified first aid kit. All of it. Rendered irrelevant by a sudden, inexplicable abundance. It is as if the universe finally read the Financial Times and said, 'You know what, chaps, this is rubbish,' before raining down toasters and iPhones like some sort of mechanised manna from heaven.

The stock market, predictably, has reacted with the grace of a startled giraffe on roller skates. Shares in everything from flat-pack furniture to artisanal cheese have plummeted. The FTSE 100 is now the FTSE 0. The Bank of England, in a desperate bid to maintain relevance, has begun issuing commemorative fivers printed on recycled demands for payment. But nobody cares. Why would they? You can get a solid gold bidet for the price of a polite nod.

And yet, and yet. The British spirit, that peculiar blend of stoicism and passive aggression, has found new frontiers of complaint. With material needs met, the national pastime of grumbling has pivoted to the intangible. The air is thick with outrage over the quality of free prosecco. 'It's too fizzy,' wails a woman in Croydon. 'The bubbles are aggressive.' A man in Hove has formed a protest group against the 'unregulated distribution of Gucci loafers.' His placard reads: 'My feet demand exclusivity.'

Meanwhile, the government, being a government, has appointed a Minister for Post-Scarcity Affairs. Sir Humphrey Wetherby-Grunt, a man whose face looks like a crumpled copy of the Daily Telegraph, has announced a new initiative: 'Mandatory Gratitude Hours.' Between 10am and 11am each day, citizens must sit quietly and appreciate their free things. Failure to show sufficient enthusiasm will result in a fine. Payable in gratitude. Naturally.

The implications for journalism are, of course, vast and terrifying. What is a satirical correspondent to do when the very concept of scarcity, the lifeblood of political mockery, evaporates? I suppose I could write about the new social hierarchy based on who got the free ergonomic chair first. Or the scandalous inequity of premium subscription boxes still costing a tenner. But really, the heart has gone out of it. There is no more joy in skewering the wealthy when the wealthy are suddenly surrounded by the same free junk as everyone else.

The truth is, we were never ready for this. We had prepared ourselves for Brexit, for pandemics, for the eventual AI uprising that would begin with a toaster refusing to burn our bread. But a world where everything is free? It is too much. It is like giving a toddler a lifetime supply of sugar and then asking them to sit still for a parliamentary debate about fiscal responsibility.

So here we stand, on the precipice of a new era. A world without want, but brimming with complaint. I am going to pour myself a very large gin. It is free now, but old habits, like a good moan, die hard.