“…And to those who say Build Build Build is an unimaginative slogan I say, it’s a lazy slogan more than it is unimaginative. But that’s beside the point. We’re going to build, baby, we’re going to build big tall things and do things with roads and we’re going to build a bridge to the Moon, motherfuckers, a big bridge so we can trade cheese with the Moon Men. Those Moon Men love cheese. It’s a new deal. The old deal was pretty shitty and so is the new one, but it’s a new type of shitty deal for the 21st century – extra shitty and with less privacy somehow. Build build build until we get tired or run out of building materials. The whole country’s going to sound like hammering and there’ll be builders’ cracks as far as the eye can see, baby. That’s Britain, motherfuckers – arse cracks and banging. Plus there’s going to be a 300ft tall solid gold statue of me in Parliament Square, sticking my cock in Churchill’s ear. Brexit Britain!”
Holding his first news conference since recovering from COVID-19, British Prime Minster Boris Johnson has offered hope to locked-down Britons, saying “I can confirm today, that for the first time, I am pa… we are past the peak of this disease, and Britain is on the downward slope to success.
“A lot of people – the ones who haven’t died at least – have said that we have the second-highest official COVID-19 death toll in Europe. But to them, I say, thanks to people like me we are no longer part of Europe, so those statistics aren’t valid. The EU has made a terrible mess of its coronavirus response, and the mess I have made of our own shows us we don’t need Europe to screw things up for us when we are perfectly capable of doing it ourselves. Hooray.
“With that in mind, and with rising unemployment and many companies crippled, I promise next week to set out a lockdown exit strategy, which will most likely involve me lying on beach for a week. I’ve had coronavirus, you know, and I don’t need all this hassle.”
“Here, have this pen.”
Ah, there’s nothing more British – more English – than James Bond, an arrogant white bloke with an English accent who drinks a lot and punches people. No doubt once they get rid of Daniel Craig they’ll cast some bloody foreign disabled vegan lesbian and they’ll make her all touchy-feely and politically correct. Grr, don’t get me started on political correctness. Want to be rude about foreigners? Want to make a funny joke about them? No chance mate – the bloody Sharia police will be round to arrest you and send you to the re-education camps like they all do in foreignland.
Speaking of which, why does James Bond have to go to all these different foreign places all the time? Why can’t he stay in Britain? We’ve got lots of dramatic looking shit that’d be alright in a film – Cheddar Gorge, Wookey Hole. Coventry. And if you want a brilliant car chase there’s the bloody M6 mate. I mean, I haven’t seen Spectre – don’t need to to have an opinion on it, do I – but it seems to me it would be a much better film if Bond just stayed at home and got pissed and punched wankers like a proper Englishman.
And I’ll tell you what else: why do you never get to see the Bond girl’s tits? This isn’t a Carry On film, it’s a sophisticated piece of adult entertainment about a man with a biro that turns into a jet-ski, so let’s see some hoobly jooblies. Idiots. Did I tell you I used to be in the SAS?
To all the people who voted in the EU referendum to leave; who voted to restrict the lives of future generations; who voted to side with racists, fascists and anti-Semites; and who voted with people like Nigel Farage and Ann Widdecombe so you could sit on your sofas and be jingoistic, self-righteous little Englanders: fuck you. Fuck you all, you small-minded, selfish, arrogant, two World Wars and one World Cup, throwing a party for Brexit Day, remembering the good old days, waving a Union Jack at a picture of the Queen, Radio 4 listening, jackboot-wearing Nazi fucks. Fuck you.
Update 22:25: Fuck your plastic Union Jack bowler hats and waistcoats; especially fuck your countdown clock projected onto the White Cliffs of Dover; fuck Laura Kuenssberg; fuck your fucking buffet made with only British fucking food; fuck your regional reports that make Brexit look like Children in fucking Need; fuck your backward-looking rose-tinted 1950s bullshit and, once again, fuck you.
Update 2020-02-01 23:45: Also fuck you if you referred to Brexit Day as ‘Independence Day’, you glib fucks.
Nothing says Brexit better than a bunch of idiots gloating over a senseless victory with a meaningless symbol. First blue passports and now a gaslighting commemorative 50p coin celebrating “Peace, prosperity and friendship with all nations” following nearly four years of bitterness, employment uncertainty, and open racism and nationalism. At least a 52p coin would have shown a bit of imagination.
Big Ben – you big towery bastard – you’ve gone silent just when the indignant pink-faced spluttering arseflaps of Brexit need you most. Never mind that before David Cameron inadvertently destroyed the country not a single one of those frothing tosspots had ever given a silent fart about Big Ben, its bongs or its clapper – Big Ben is now the shining needle that the country’s short-sighted, small-minded Union Jack-waving Gavins and Yvonnes will use to prick the country right out of the EU.
“Bung a bob to make Big Ben bong for Brexit!” Boris burbled bemi-boherently. “Big Ben must bong for Brexit!” the Daily Express quacked. “Bung Big Ben up Boris’s Backside!” No-one suggested, disappointingly. Why must Bigbenbong? Because if Big Ben doesn’t bong for Brexit then no Leaver will get the exact Brexit they demanded, when they voted to start this self-abuse nearly four years ago. Every single one of them voted Leave with one dream between them – that Spitfires would zoom over Big Ben as it bonged cheering crowds of backward-looking fuckwits into Britain’s brave new world of independence, before flying across the channel and bombing those bloody garlic-eating French garçons with tens of thousands of pairs of Union Jack boxer shorts. Without the bongs of Big Ben, the Spitfires, the Union Jack boxer shorts, even the jingoism, will just seem like spiteful, empty gestures.
Brexiteers started whacking off over their dream of freedom almost four years ago and that they could be deprived of their bongs just as they reach the vinegar strokes is something no Leaver will tolerate. Therefore Big Ben must bong for Brexit or Brexit will become an eternal one off the wrist demanding more and more extreme acts of nationalism enabling Leavers to finally achieve exit, all over the faces of those bureaucratic Brussels bastards.