“Those traitorous remoaners have stitched us up!” shouted masses of gammon and key politicians who prey on their salty credulousness, as details of plans for Northern Ireland’s life outside of the EU were revealed.
”The bloody fact, bloody fancy, bloody avocado eating, bloody ooo I’m so clever metropolitan disconnected out of touch snob remainers were supposed to warn everyone what was coming down the line if we chose to tie ourselves to the tracks of Brexit,” Frank Bloody Field MP told LCD Views, “and did they? Did they bloody hell!”
At this point Frank had to sit down and imagine a restorative vision of a revolution, after millions of bloody middle class people were finally eating out of bins and the common man realised the racism fuelled bollocks of Brexit. And their political betters, while still their comrades, lived in the mansions nationalised after the fall of all that evil capitalism.
”No one told us we were going to be stockpiling bloody tinned food because no one bothered to work out how our food supply chain works. Whose bloody job is that? Some lazy fancy pants with two tone shoes made of supple Italian leather soaked in the sweat of children. I bloody reckon! Who’s job…”
Frank settled again. Restoring himself this time with the image of smashing open the temple of Mammon in London and using the recovered toil of the masses to buy Russian made tractors and feed a starving mass.
”And Northern Ireland to be powered by floating flipping batteries in the Irish Sea? This is Global Britain? The Tories are turning us into Venezuela, with my and certain other Labour colleagues help.”
Frank breathed in. Breathed out. Imagined Marx and Lenin and Castro holding a cake sale, before finally,
”Project Fear was Project Understatement, I tell you, and I am pointing the finger squarely at the bloody remainers for not being as hysterical as us red kippers. We know who to blame. We’re taking names.”
There. That’s reassuring then. Look to the future and watch the batteries bob in a gale in the Irish Sea as the lights of Northern Ireland go off and on, off and on, to the rhythm of the sea.