This loyal thrall of Boris, this septic isle. This hearth of mediocrity, this seat of arses. This other Eton, demi-parasite. This fortress built by Neoliberalism for herself against inspection and the hand of peace.
This hapless breed of men, this little England, this putrid shit set in a septic tank, which serves it in the office of a wall, or as a tariff defensive to a trade deal. Against the ennui of more happier lands: this betrayal plot, this urchin, this rogue, this England.
This England, or “The UK” according to Dominic “throbbing vein” Raab, is revelling in regaining the title of The Sick Man Of Europe. Not since the decline during the 1970s and the admission into the fledgling EU has this been the case. To be, or not to be in the EU, that was the question: Whether ’twas nobler in the media to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous policy, or to take arms against a sea of remoaners, and by opposing end them.
We all know the answer to that.
Now, thanks to the coronavirus pandemic, the crown has been won again, over six months ahead of schedule. For in that sleep of death what covid may bring when we shuffle off this mortal coil, must give us pause – there’s the number of deaths we can get away with before declaring herd immunity a success.
In celebration, Send ‘Em Home Secretary Priti Patel has issued her new album, Greatest Hits: When Smirkey Sings. As well as classics like Smirk Gets In Your Face, Get It Done, and Smirk On The Watered-Down Fascism, is the hit single Ending Free Movement. This song is expected to gain the now traditional nul points at Eurovision.
We don’t need no education, cough the covid-suffering sick men of Britain, as we put another brick in the wall separating the UK from the 21st century.
And what will come of this England? The undiscover’d country, from whose borders no traveller returns? To die, to sleep, perchance to dream of past glories.