Got a loicense for that banana, mate?

Doesn’t salvage law allow to take the bananas? Or does it not apply anymore If they wash ashore?

Prosecuted for what? Enjoying a meal? A succulent, banana meal?

You come at my gleaners you best not miss

The works of the roots of the vines, of the trees, must be destroyed to keep up the price, and this is the saddest, bitterest thing of all. Carloads of oranges dumped on the ground. The people came for miles to take the fruit, but this could not be. How would they buy oranges at twenty cents a dozen if they could drive out and pick them up? And men with hoses squirt kerosene on the oranges, and they are angry at the crime, angry at the people who have come to take the fruit. A million people hungry, needing the fruit- and kerosene sprayed over the golden mountains. And the smell of rot fills the country. Burn coffee for fuel in the ships. Burn corn to keep warm, it makes a hot fire. Dump potatoes in the rivers and place guards along the banks to keep the hungry people from fishing them out. Slaughter the pigs and bury them, and let the putrescence drip down into the earth.

There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation. There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize. There is a failure here that topples all our success. The fertile earth, the straight tree rows, the sturdy trunks, and the ripe fruit. And children dying of pellagra must die because a profit cannot be taken from an orange. And coroners must fill in the certificate- died of malnutrition- because the food must rot, must be forced to rot. The people come with nets to fish for potatoes in the river, and the guards hold them back; they come in rattling cars to get the dumped oranges, but the kerosene is sprayed. And they stand still and watch the potatoes float by, listen to the screaming pigs being killed in a ditch and covered with quick-lime, watch the mountains of oranges slop down to a putrefying ooze; and in the eyes of the people there is the failure; and in the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath. In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.

This reminds me of when a large whiskey distillery broke in 19th century Ireland and many people died. Not from large quantities of alcohol sweeping people away (something like that happened in London in the early 19th century) but from passerby drinking so much of the stuff they died of alcohol poisoning.

Most Irish way to die ever!

Nah, they were dumb enough to lose them, those bananas are fair game.

You need to leave alone the earthly process of food falling off container ships. It’s nature’s way.

Fuck the bananas

I want the Cocaine washing up on the shores

Eating beach bananas sounds like a great way to get some kind of weird illness. It’s not like there’s a nearby banana tree that they could have come from. But maybe I’m just too accustomed to grocery stores

I don’t know anything about British courts, but I doubt that any court is going to find anybody guilty of any major crime for collecting bananas washing up on the beach, for which the corporation that lost them got an insurance settlement to cover the loss. That’s salvage, and salvage rights are long established.

But…

The Charter of the Forest declared that people are free to sustain themselves from the land.

Police, customs authorities, and the Receiver of Wrecks have warned beachcombers not to eat the bananas or to take them home.

This is the only mention in the linked article.

this reminds me of the famous quote in the grapes of wrath

The works of the roots of the vines, of the trees, must be destroyed to keep up the price, and this is the saddest, bitterest thing of all. Carloads of oranges dumped on the ground. The people came for miles to take the fruit, but this could not be. How would they buy oranges at twenty cents a dozen if they could drive out and pick them up? And men with hoses squirt kerosene on the oranges, and they are angry at the crime, angry at the people who have come to take the fruit. A million people hungry, needing the fruit- and kerosene sprayed over the golden mountains. And the smell of rot fills the country. Burn coffee for fuel in the ships. Burn corn to keep warm, it makes a hot fire. Dump potatoes in the rivers and place guards along the banks to keep the hungry people from fishing them out. Slaughter the pigs and bury them, and let the putrescence drip down into the earth.

There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation. There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize. There is a failure here that topples all our success. The fertile earth, the straight tree rows, the sturdy trunks, and the ripe fruit. And children dying of pellagra must die because a profit cannot be taken from an orange. And coroners must fill in the certificate- died of malnutrition- because the food must rot, must be forced to rot. The people come with nets to fish for potatoes in the river, and the guards hold them back; they come in rattling cars to get the dumped oranges, but the kerosene is sprayed. And they stand still and watch the potatoes float by, listen to the screaming pigs being killed in a ditch and covered with quick-lime, watch the mountains of oranges slop down to a putrefying ooze; and in the eyes of the people there is the failure; and in the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath. In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.

british government more protective of bananas arriving on shore than they are refugees