The “Britain Rues, OK!” issue


IDS-lies-nhs-macd-smSLEEP BEFORE YOU GO GO!

Now we can all sleep soundly, safe in the knowledge that a bunch of people with no idea of what to do next are running the country. But when was it any different? The government has decided to consume itself with infighting and hatred, and – not out manoeuvred – so has the opposition.


All roads in England now lead to the emergency Brexit – it’s just there through the unlit stairwell beneath the houses of parliament where Guy Fawkes once left enough barrels of gunpowder to blow the pips off the news bulletin at the top of the hour. If you find your way through that and the raw sewage pipes we had to clean up because of EU regulations (bah boo hiss! how dare they say how to clean a beach! What next? Climate Change? Nigel! Go get ’em boy! Kill Kill Kill! Grrr….) Eventually you’ll find yourself in the channel tunnel.  At least we’ll get our Calais  Jungle back “It’s coming home, they’re coming home The jungle’s coming home!” to Dover where it belongs along with all the struggling migrants trying to get into Britain. So, job done! All we have to do now is accept the will of a toussel haired nutcase who jumps on any passing bandwagon – or is that the United States? Whatever! Too much thinking causes cancer so less is more as far as breaking out the oars and rowing ourselves out into the mid Atlantic while the sharks circle to peck at the dangly bits slowing numbing in the reversing Gulf Stream goes.


Perfect! So, plan of action time is over, we can all start to properly panic without politicians getting in the way with their wars of words or attempts at squeezing actual facts through the multi-headed multi-national multi-muck chucking meat mangle we call impartial media.
Thanks to them we can now sit back and watch as  Nigel Fexage and Ian Duncan Death Wish generate a double headed shit storm faster than the internet’s best cloud seeding chem trail conspiracy theory can spread search terms.


This is Britain’s finest hour, or minute maybe, or maybe just second. Enough time to rewind the old super 8’s of the sixties and marvel at how the Beatles  morphed from mop tops to acid heads in the blink of a historical eye. “Never mind the bloody music,” say the experts, t’was the celebrity culture what done it!

So wrap yourself in that flag once reserved for groups with racist overtones, and feel the stingy pride of post colonialism. We’re all peasant farmers now, vassals to the crown and her cronies who need somewhere to park their super yachts for the Queen’s birthday celebrations before chugging off into international waters to avoid paying taxes while burning through 600 litres of high Sulphur crude – just far enough away to call themselves offshore to use incoming rubber dingies overloaded with nationless poor people for target practice – while some un-resigned flunkie tries to turn round the supertanker.


lastly, thank you David for dragging the nation into a puddle before letting your mates whack it with cricket bats until it lies bloody and swollen as a trapped Koi Carp gasping for air while the gulls glide excitedly down from


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