Brexit: The Grand Act Of Punching Oneself In the Face FOREVER.

A countdown to the final hour of Britain in the union.

Brexit: The Grand Act Of Punching Oneself In the Face FOREVER.

It’s strange sitting here and watching seconds fall off the clock as the march almighty toward the hallow sunlit uplands of Brexit fast approaches.

No longer wandering what it would feel like to be a lemming, hurtling toward the cliff edge in giddy joy at our own demise. Oblivious to the cliffs and certain doom that lays below.

Here I am. Living it.

Watching an entire country isolate itself into obscurity and confusion and self immolation. All for a feel of that lovely blue passport for a holiday to a country we could have walked into without any problems in June last year, but now we have to pay to enter and also get a visa for! The inconvenience is delicious! I want more please sir!!

Less than one hour to go until the country I have grown up in my entire life - Great Britain - takes the long walk out of the gold and blue draped hallways of Brussels for what is looking - for a generation at least it would be fair to presume - the last time.

Soon to begin the slog of figuring out exactly what the fuck post-Brexit Great Britain is when it’s out there on its own, standing on the brink of the nest that has been its comfort and home for the last 47 years.

Determined to prove their worth at last to an aged and dying generation above who vividly recall the glory of the empire and the land before the Union with our neighbours... you know, back when the world was a torched and torn up cesspit of a bunker, dug hollow into some godforsaken (quite literally) trench in southern France. Determined to prove their worth and pay penitence in faith and belief that our elders know better. The country, the blood and futures of the youth and their own sons and daughters offered in sacrifice of worship to the grey skinned, pallid fleshed oracles of the yesteryear... before the Europeans, before the oppressive, aggressive shadow of the gently wafting ring of gold stars on royal blue.

Brexit is here.

We got it done.

Hip hip hooray.

(A solitary partypopper limply *pffts* an ejaculation of lifeless chewed gum grey streamers upon the drab grey carpet - like the exhaustive orgasm of some ghostly octogenarian.)

Twenty minutes to go and crowds gather in “celebration and commiseration” and sky news so wonderfully put it.

Baying opposites - the gammon faced pit bull leavers playing vanguard the the effete, old Etonian suit wearing grand Brexiteers - who quaff sherry and sip tiny spoons of caviar and giggle gently in feminine-tones as they peer jocularly over their half moon glasses. Thick brylcreem pomade sticking greying-at-the-temples hair-styles to oily waxen scalps. Giggles amplifying as the pitfalls explode in rage at the slightest hint of snow.

Facing them socialist lefties with jumped up desires for fairness, equality, brotherhood and a shared value system upon which rests the greatest union of democracies the world has ever assembled. Pompous, pie-in-the-sky bleeding heart libtards who dream - NAY! - EXPECT a fair share of the riches, the land, the laughter and ale... expecting always! Never lifting a finger to earn it, the scrounging bastard rats and cockroaches that they are. These worthless rapscallions and dreamers.

The battle for the soul of the country ready to begin. As sensational and as inevitable as the awfulness of the last season of game of thrones. The cameras of the press, now tools of one faction or another, taking the lead of their cousins on the other side of the Atlantic (another story for another time, fair reader!)

The news primed and ready to unleash the tide of blood that’s brewing on every TV screen from Lands End to John O’Groats, in epic 4K 3D High Def surround sound... history little more than tabloid fish wrapper now.

Ten minutes to go.

Tick tock tick tock tick tock tick...

Five minutes to go.

The relentless taste of our own knuckles still tastes as good the first time we started to punch ourselves in the mush. You know, on the day David Cameron doo-doo-doo’ed his way back to number ten, the day he resigned and threw the rancid, steaming horse shit of a casserole that Brexit was into the street for the next sorry bastard to fix.

Two minutes to go.

Fireworks weakly explode prematurely outside from some garden of a house whose value is likely to plummet in the near future. A future looking bleak and very uncertain.

Here it comes.

Here comes Brexit.

Fucking yippee.

*Great Britain cocks back the trigger of the shotgun, and gently fellates the barrel, rests finger on trigger*

“GUGGBUH EGREBADDY!”

*pulls trigger*

Yay.

We got Brexit done.

#brexit #wegotbrexitdone #sadomasochism

politics
Andi James Chamberlain
Andi James Chamberlain
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Andi James Chamberlain

Leicester, UK based author of novel "ONE MAN AND HIS DOGMA" released in Sept 2015, and short story collection "10 SHORT OF 31" released in Sept 2016.

He lives in exile with an order of Blind Ninja Monks and makes epic shit happen.

See all posts by Andi James Chamberlain