The Secret Life of UK Goods in a Post-Brexit World

If you’ve ever wondered why exporting from the UK to places beyond Europe feels like a cross between a James Bond mission and a particularly frustrating round of Monopoly, you’re not alone. The truth is, exporting outside Europe has always been an adventure—but post-Brexit, it’s taken on a new flavour. A flavour that tastes a bit like paperwork marinated in cold tea, garnished with acronyms, and served on a ship that’s been delayed in the Suez Canal.

This blog aims to tackle the serious business of exporting beyond Europe, but with a dash of humour. Because if you can’t laugh at the absurdity of filling in a 47-page customs form just to ship a box of biscuits to Bangkok, what can you laugh at?

Chapter One: The New Frontier of British Exports

Once upon a time, if you exported something from the UK to, say, France or Spain, the biggest challenge was convincing DHL to actually ring your doorbell instead of leaving your goods with a neighbour who pretends to be out. Post-Brexit, Europe now feels like that ex you still bump into occasionally but try to avoid at Tesco.

Now the government says “Global Britain” is about looking further afield—Asia, Africa, the Americas, the Outer Hebrides (okay, that last one doesn’t count). But trading beyond Europe means entering a new world of tariffs, trade agreements, and rules of origin so confusing they make IKEA instructions look straightforward.

Chapter Two: Paperwork, Paperwork, and More Paperwork

Here’s a fun fact: the UK has 11,000 tariff codes. Each one corresponds to a different type of product, from “live horses” to “powdered milk” to “souvenir plastic trinkets that fall apart on day two.” Accidentally pick the wrong one and suddenly your “luxury teabags” are reclassified as “plant matter for agricultural processing.” That’s a very different tax bracket.

If bureaucracy were an Olympic sport, exporting would be Team GB’s chance to sweep the medals.

Export Declarations: To say where the goods are going.

Certificates of Origin: To prove where they came from.

Incoterms: To decide who pays for shipping, insurance, and the inevitable bribes of chocolate biscuits to keep customs officers friendly.

And then there’s the paperwork translation. Send goods to Japan, and the form must be filled out in Japanese, with kanji symbols so intricate you begin to suspect they were invented by mischievous calligraphers on a Friday afternoon.

Chapter Three: The Logistics of Actually Moving Stuff

The romance of global trade is easy to imagine: a container ship setting sail from Southampton, bound for Singapore, with the Union Jack flapping in the wind. The reality is less “maritime adventure” and more “Why is my container still sitting at Felixstowe? Oh right, there’s a backlog caused by a shortage of HGV drivers, a strike in Rotterdam, and a container shortage in China.”

Logistics today is like a giant Jenga tower. One wrong move, and suddenly your pallet of Cornish clotted cream meant for Australia is sitting in a warehouse at 30°C, turning into something that no longer legally qualifies as “food.”

And then there are the costs. Shipping a container used to cost a few thousand pounds. Post-pandemic, at times it’s been more expensive than renting a three-bedroom house in Croydon.

Chapter Four: Rules of Origin (or, How to Ruin a Perfectly Good Biscuit)

The phrase “rules of origin” sounds like something out of a fantasy novel, but it’s just trade jargon for proving where your product really comes from. In theory, it makes sense: if you sell British biscuits, you should be able to prove they’re British.

But here’s the twist: let’s say your biscuits are made with cocoa from Ghana, sugar from Brazil, and packaging from Poland. Suddenly your “Made in the UK” treat has a global ancestry more complicated than the average contestant on Who Do You Think You Are? Customs officials love this kind of thing. For them, biscuits are not biscuits—they’re complex puzzles waiting to be rejected.

Chapter Five: The Human Factor

Behind every export is a person—usually an underpaid export compliance officer who has perfected the art of sighing heavily. These people are the unsung heroes of trade. They can recite tariff codes in their sleep and know which countries will demand a fumigation certificate for wooden pallets (spoiler: most of them).

Small business owners, meanwhile, are trying to juggle it all themselves. A craft gin distiller in Cornwall once joked that he spends more time filling in export documents than actually distilling gin. That’s tragic, because frankly, the more gin in circulation, the easier this paperwork would be to bear.

Chapter Six: The Topical Bit

So, why is this blog relevant right now? Because the UK government is currently negotiating trade deals left, right, and centre. The Comprehensive and Progressive Agreement for Trans-Pacific Partnership (CPTPP)—try saying that after two pints—is a big one. It opens access to markets like Japan, Canada, and Australia.

Sounds great, right? Except each deal comes with its own rules, exceptions, and “transitional measures.” Translation: more paperwork. Businesses are being told to embrace “digital customs clearance,” but in practice, the system still occasionally crashes if you try to upload a PDF larger than 2MB.

Meanwhile, global supply chains are still wobbly. The war in Ukraine has disrupted energy costs and grain shipments, the Red Sea has become a game of “dodge the pirates,” and climate change is adding unpredictability with droughts closing canals. Exporting is no longer just about products—it’s about geopolitics, weather forecasts, and whether there’s a global shortage of cardboard boxes this week.

Chapter Seven: The Comedy of Errors

Let’s take a moment to appreciate some real-life exporting mishaps:

A UK company once tried to export pigs’ trotters to China, only to discover they’d sent the wrong paperwork and their container of trotters spent six weeks circling the South China Sea like some tragic floating buffet.

A Yorkshire cheese producer had their shipment blocked because the label translated into Mandarin as “fermented cow brick.” Not a bestseller, it turns out.

A London-based stationery firm shipped pens to the US without declaring the ink composition. The pens were impounded until someone proved the ink wasn’t explosive. (Though frankly, in the wrong hands, a biro can be a weapon.)

Each mishap is funny in retrospect, but costly at the time. Exporting teaches resilience—and a very dark sense of humour.

Chapter Eight: Tips for the Brave

So, if you’re thinking about exporting outside Europe, what should you keep in mind?

Get a good customs broker. They are worth their weight in gold, or at least in KitKats.

Know your Incoterms. Otherwise you’ll end up paying for insurance on goods that have already been eaten by rats at a foreign port.

Triple-check your tariff codes. Misclassification is the fast track to misery.

Expect delays. Build in a buffer time so generous that even British trains would envy it.

Stay sane. Exporting can feel absurd, but if you can laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, you’ll survive.

Chapter Nine: The Bigger Picture

Behind the paperwork, the tariffs, and the comedy of errors, exporting is still worth it. It connects people. It lets a family in Malaysia enjoy clotted cream, a café in Canada brew Yorkshire tea, and an office in Brazil run on British stationery (as long as they declare the ink correctly).

And for UK businesses, global trade offers opportunities to diversify, grow, and innovate. Yes, it’s messy. Yes, it’s complicated. But there’s something wonderful about knowing your small workshop in Manchester can send handmade goods halfway around the world.

Conclusion: Exporting as Absurd Heroism

Exporting from the UK outside Europe is serious business. It’s a vital part of our economy, it creates jobs, and it keeps Britain connected to the wider world. But let’s be honest—it’s also ridiculous at times. The paperwork is labyrinthine, the logistics are temperamental, and the rules can feel arbitrary.

And yet, British businesses keep doing it. Because behind every container ship, every airway bill, and every rejected shipment of “fermented cow brick,” there’s resilience, determination, and maybe even a sense of humour.

So next time you see a jar of marmalade in a Singapore supermarket, or a box of Scottish shortbread in New York, spare a thought for the army of exporters who made it happen. They are the unsung heroes of “Global Britain”—armed with pens, patience, and an endless supply of tea.