Diary of a BREXITEER

Europe, 20 June 2016 Brexit. Markus Grolik/Cartoon Movement/Hollandse


Of course I stayed in London for the VOTE the great moment when Theresa’s Treachery was overcome by a huge majority. Well, yes, I know she was trying to LEAVE but why do we need permission to do whatever we want? We are a mighty NATION with grateful allies in our former EMPIRE who will be happy to see us rise up again. True, we don’t want them coming here, fuzzy -wuzzys as they are, but if they just stay where they are and trade with us to their own disadvantage, that’ll prove the commonwealth is better than Brussels.

Someone in the crowd said, “Why are you cheering if you’re a leaver, when they’ve just voted against a scheme for leaving?”

“We don’t want tied up with lots of rules,” I explained to this nitwit, “We just want out. What bit of OUT NOW don’t you understand?”

Then someone said there was a party for LEAVERS at Rees-Mog’s house, so we went along, but were stopped at the door by his bouncer, big tasty chap with a uniform.

“What you want?” He asked.

“We’re leavers, pal, and we heard there was a party here an’…”

“Not for you, scotty,” he told me rudely, “You’re not this class, so be so good as to piss off.”

Now I don’t take that language from anybody, so I said a few well- chosen words and swung at him with my right fist. Smack! Something big and overwhelming hit me on the nose and I landed badly on the kerb. My loyal friends tried to get me on my feet but my nose was bleeding and my head was dizzy. Somebody called an ambulance, an’ the Polis arrived too, rejecting our claims of assault, and advising us to move on. The ambulance took me to A&E where I passed out. When I came to I was in a bed with a black lady looking at me.

“Good morning,” she said, I’m glad you’ve come round, because you’ve been disturbing the ward with speeches about all the people you don’t like. I’m the ward doctor, born in Africa, now a citizen of Poland, so I can tell you that you’re facing your worst nightmare: you’re about to get an injection from a black Polish lesbian….”

As she came towards me with the syringe, I must have passed out again, but later in the day managed to get on the train back to Scotland, and the bus home. The house seemed a wee bit quiet, no sign of the missus, but note for me left on the table.

“My recent absences, which you probably have not noticed, were so that I could meet with my dear Mr. Ibrahim Mohammed, whom you call Mr. Ali, the owner of our corner shop. He has recently bought a new shop and house in Perth, and has done me the honour of asking me to share it with him, which I am very pleased to do. I don’t suppose you will miss me much except for the services I supplied. I want to take back control of my life. Goodbye.”


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