While big business gain subsidies and political access, small

Host: The rain was falling sideways, pushed by a cold wind that swept through the empty streets of London. The lamplight flickered against the wet cobblestones, and the storefronts, shuttered and dark, reflected a muted sorrow — the kind that hums beneath the surface of a city too old to flinch anymore.

Through the window of a small pub near Fleet Street, two figures sat by the fireplace — its embers glowing like a dying argument that refused to end.

Jack leaned back, his coat damp, his grey eyes sharp as the flame’s edge. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands clasped around a mug of tea, her hair loose from the wind, her expression thoughtful — soft but defiant, as though carrying both sorrow and resistance in the same breath.

A newspaper lay between them, its headline smudged by rain:
“Global Trade Agreement Expands: Local Industries Protest New Regulations.”

Jeeny: “Zac Goldsmith said it best — ‘While big business gain subsidies and political access, small businesses drown in red tape… Economic globalisation is about homogenising differences in the world’s markets, cultures, tastes, and traditions.’”

Her voice was calm, but her eyes burned. “It’s not progress anymore, Jack. It’s assimilation. The world’s turning into one giant shopping mall — every street, every soul, on sale.”

Jack: “You make it sound like conspiracy. It’s just economics, Jeeny. Efficiency. The world’s getting smaller, and business is just... catching up.”

Jeeny: “Catching up? No, Jack. Consuming. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “You think the world can thrive on isolation? Small towns with fading industries? Nostalgia doesn’t feed people.”

Jeeny: “Neither does monopoly. You think the farmer in India or the baker in Nottingham stands a chance against corporations that write the rules of their own game?”

Host: The fire crackled, throwing shadows on the walls — one moment fierce, the next uncertain, like the flicker between conviction and despair. The pub’s door opened briefly, a blast of wind slicing through the warmth, bringing in the scent of rain and protest flyers soaked and torn.

Jack: “Look, I get the sentiment — the David versus Goliath thing. But the truth is, globalisation’s raised billions out of poverty. It’s built infrastructure, created jobs. You can’t argue with the numbers.”

Jeeny: “Numbers don’t tell stories, Jack. They erase them. Sure, GDP rises — but at what cost? Villages vanish, dialects disappear, traditions turn into marketing slogans. The same coffee chains, the same billboards, the same faces on every continent. Progress looks sterile when it’s everywhere.”

Jack: “You sound like you’d rather people stay poor than lose their local charm.”

Jeeny: “Don’t twist it. I’m saying that when wealth becomes a privilege of those who already own the rules, freedom becomes illusion. You think a small café owner has the same ‘freedom’ as Starbucks?”

Jack: “Freedom’s not equal. It never was. But it’s better than the alternative — walls, tariffs, isolation. You don’t build bridges by staying in your village.”

Host: Jeeny set her mug down, the ceramic hitting wood with a soft thud. Her eyes glinted in the firelight, dark and steady. Jack sighed, rubbing his temples, the way men do when logic starts to sound like defeat.

Jeeny: “You talk like globalisation’s some natural law. It’s not gravity — it’s design. Political deals. Corporate subsidies. Governments throwing lifelines to billionaires while small businesses sink. You call that evolution?”

Jack: “It’s survival of the biggest. Always has been. Nature works the same way.”

Jeeny: “No, nature adapts — it doesn’t erase its diversity. The forest thrives because no single tree owns the sunlight.”

Jack: “Poetic, but naive. If you limit scale, you limit progress. Small can’t feed the world.”

Jeeny: “And big will starve it in time.”

Host: The wind howled outside, rattling the windows. The flames in the fireplace bent low for a moment, as though listening. The bartender, polishing glasses, watched them quietly, the way one might watch a play that feels too close to truth.

Jack: “So what’s your answer? Go back to barter? To local markets and paper money?”

Jeeny: “No. Just balance. Accountability. You want freedom? Then make it real — not just for CEOs and shareholders. Stop calling it liberty when it only serves the powerful.”

Jack: “You think regulations are freedom? The same red tape that strangles small businesses?”

Jeeny: “Not regulation — representation. A voice for those outside the boardroom. A world that doesn’t brand dissent as terrorism.”

Jack: “Oh come on, that’s hyperbole.”

Jeeny: “Is it? People protesting trade laws get labeled as extremists now. Corporations can sue governments if their profits are threatened — but an ordinary citizen can’t sue a corporation for poisoning their river. That’s the new order you defend.”

Host: A moment of silence. The rain softened, the firelight flickered, and something fragile settled between them — the uneasy recognition that both were right, and both were wrong.

Jack: “Maybe it’s not globalisation that’s the enemy. Maybe it’s what we’ve done with it — turned it from opportunity into ownership.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It could’ve been beautiful — exchange, collaboration, shared growth. But we turned it into empire all over again. Only this time, the colonies are online, and the kings wear logos instead of crowns.”

Jack: “You really think there’s any way back?”

Jeeny: “Not back. Forward — but slower. Kinder. Maybe we stop chasing scale like it’s salvation.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked, the second hand trembling, as if reluctant to move. Outside, a delivery truck rumbled past, its side painted with a smiling corporate logo that glowed like irony under the streetlight.

Jeeny watched it fade into the fog, her voice low, almost a whisper.

Jeeny: “You know what I miss, Jack? Difference. The smell of food that only exists in one town. The sound of a dialect that doesn’t translate. We’ve traded uniqueness for convenience — and we call that winning.”

Jack: “Maybe we just want connection. To not feel alone. Maybe sameness is comfort.”

Jeeny: “Comfort’s not the same as meaning. If everything’s the same everywhere, then nowhere matters.”

Host: Jack looked into the fire, his reflection caught in the glass — distorted, doubled, uncertain. He spoke softly, more to himself than to her.

Jack: “My father owned a hardware shop in Manchester. The kind of place where he knew every customer by name. When the superstore opened across town, he tried to compete. Discounts, sales, loyalty cards. None of it mattered. People said they loved him, but they loved cheap more. He closed after thirty years.”

Jeeny: “That wasn’t failure. That was a man holding the line against the tide.”

Jack: “The tide doesn’t care who it drowns.”

Jeeny: “No — but people do. That’s why you’re still angry.”

Host: The fire had burned low now, the coals glowing faintly, like embers of truth that refuse to die.

Jeeny: “Goldsmith wasn’t just talking about economics. He was warning about identity — about the soul of nations. When you erase difference for profit, you don’t just lose markets. You lose meaning.”

Jack: “And what happens when meaning can’t pay the rent?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we learn to measure wealth differently.”

Host: They both fell silent, the sound of the rain returning, gentle now — like a lullaby for a city that never truly sleeps.

Jeeny rose, pulled her scarf tighter, and looked down at Jack.

Jeeny: “Big business may own the sky, but the ground still belongs to those who walk it.”

Jack: “Until they sell the ground too.”

Jeeny: “Then we’ll plant seeds in the cracks.”

Host: She smiled, faintly — the kind of smile that carries hope disguised as defiance — and walked out into the rain. Jack watched her go, his eyes softening, his hand brushing over the newspaper headline one last time.

Through the window, her silhouette vanished into the mist, a single figure against the machinery of the modern world — small, human, and unafraid.

Host: And the fire behind him flickered once more — a last defiant heartbeat — before settling into ash, as the city outside whispered its endless lullaby of profit and progress,
while somewhere in the distance, a single voice — stubborn, unseen — kept saying,

“I will not drown in your uniform world.”