Leaving the EU is the easiest thing in the world. We simply leave and go on to WTO rules. Remoaning naysayers like Nick Clegg insist that a ‘great power’ like the UK can’t do that because we will wreck the economy, make ourselves an international pariah and be forced to live off tinned spam. To which we say “Yum!” And anyway – we won’t be eating spam. You will.
East Timor, Somalia and Western Sahara all trade solely under WTO rules and do absolutely fine. Nobody questions their ability to export sandalwood, hides and second hand AK47s into emerging markets. While Britain is obliged to engage with the EU, the biggest market in the world, on the most favourable terms of any country on Earth, Somalia is enjoying robust trade with Djibouti and parts of war torn Eritrea. Enough is enough frankly. We are leaving and we are going to take a slice of that trade with Djibouti whether Angela Merkel likes it or not.
The UK fishing industry contributes less GDP to our economy than Harrods and employs fewer people than Poundsaver so it is quite right that we sacrifice every other industry in the UK to ensure that a few fishermen can drive stocks to extinction. The reason is simple. Nigel likes fishing. It’s his hobby and moreover his favourite book as a child was ‘the ladybird book of fishermen’. Then there’s Jane Mummery, one of our prospective MEPs. Jane is managing director of Lowestoft fishing auctions and more fish means more business for her. Why should the UK have an automotive and aeronautical sector when Jane can’t make more money?
Sex education in schools:
A life sized inflatable of Ann Widdecombe, looking angry, to be placed in every classroom with a balloon coming out of her mouth saying “Stop that revolting nonsense right now!”
As our MEP candidate Annunziata Rees-Mogg puts it: “Nobody I know uses the NHS. If we can afford private healthcare on top of the school fees, servants’ wages, repairs on the roofs of our stately homes and all those skiing trips and safaris – then why can’t ordinary people who send their children to secondary moderns?”
5G network and superfast broadband:
Nigel doesn’t use the internet – he says: “Let’s shut this wasteful project down and return to the penny post instead.”
Immigration will be limited to the many foreign born girlfriends and wives of our leaders and financial backers. Evidence if ever it were needed that immigrants take on the very nastiest jobs that nobody else is prepared to do.
The greatest risk facing this country comes not from Russia or an expansionist China – but the threat posed by the Belgian navy. They’ve been quiet far too long and as Richard Tice says: “those mussel guzzling ersatz Frenchmen are probably up to something”. For every ship the Belgian navy builds we intend to build two. The rest of it will be plagiarized from the letters page of Richard Tice’s favourite comic.
Annunziata again: “Homelessness is a choice. If one has left university and can’t afford rents in Mayfair one should jolly well go home and slum it in one’s parents’ spare wing!”
Britain’s historic role has been to suck up to the United States of America. Why should we be leading the EU when we can be told what to do by Donald Trump? ‘The Donald’ as Nigel affectionately calls him – has promised us that we can have whatever trade deal America decides to give us, on terms dictated by them, at any time they so choose. If that’s not enough to get Nigel a job on the Fox Network then we really don’t know what is.
We want your suggestions:
Please add any further ideas in the comments below.
OBVIOUSLY SATIRE. No threatening emails please.
In 2012, fearing the rise of UKIP and wishing to satiate the hunger of an increasingly rabid right wing press the Tory government implemented a ‘hostile environment’ immigration policy. The aim was to stem the flow of migrants into the UK by making it hard to come here, stay here or even wish to be here – while feeding off the festering tide of bigotry then taking grip in Britain – even as we prepared for the Olympics.
Home Secretary Theresa May, Britain’s most famous church goer, even boasted that she would ‘deport first and hear appeals later’ – while her department introduced a new and stringent set of rules on family migration into the UK.
As ‘Go Home’ vans toured the regions – ordinary lives were torn apart.
Among the many people affected were Andy and Molly Russell. Andy a TEFL teacher had met Molly (born Lili Shao) while working in China. Having married and had two children the couple had settled near Bath and were building a life together, even as the regulations were brought in. TEFL is a massive sector in the UK – employing thousands of mostly young graduates and adding around £1.6 billion to the UK economy (more than fishing). The benefits of a TEFL teacher’s life include the possibility of travel and potentially stimulating work – but nobody ever got rich in the profession and Andy was struggling to bring in the £18,600 which was now required if his wife was to be allowed to stay in Britain.
It was not to be.
Eventually Molly was obliged to leave the UK, Andy and her two small children, Dylan then aged 5 and Devon then 3 – and return to China.
The family spent the next year communicating via Skype and Molly became known as ‘computer Mummy’. For a year she was separated from both her husband and her two kids as Andy worked frantically to secure enough money to allow her to return. Eventually the hurdles were cleared and she was able to come back. That was in 2013.
The Russells now have three children – having had Charlie in the intervening years.
Last week, after over five years in limbo and having spent thousands of pounds on visas and paperwork, Molly’s application for indefinite leave was turned down. Despite providing evidence he had earned a salary significantly above the threshold every year since 2013…. despite proof from HMRC that national insurance and tax had been paid… despite bank statements, letters from employers, and independent verification from an accredited accountant – the Home Office turned them down. Their conclusion that Andy’s earnings were £100 below the £18,600 threshold is hotly contested by the Russells – but what hope is there for one family against the might of a faceless bureaucracy.
Now the Russells and their 3 children face more anxiety and uncertainty and the very real risk of separation.
The stress of this has naturally overwhelmed them both and taken a huge mental toll. They are obliged to begin the whole procedure over again and face more years of mental and financial torture.
Since tweeting about this at the weekend I have received emails and DMs from many other people in similar circumstances. It seems that despite her protestations of Christian faith – to fall in love and yet fall below a financial threshold in Theresa May’s Britain is to render yourself unworthy of living here. Your life and the lives of your children and loved ones are of no value – and you must be split up – returned to square one on the snakes and ladders of the immigration process.
Andy has said in a series of FB messages that he doesn’t seek publicity – or want it – all the Russells want is what anyone with young children – or indeed any of us want. The chance to live our lives. Security, a roof over our heads and the chance to get on with raising our kids – but in Brexit Britain that’s clearly a demand too far.
I have written many times before about how this otherwise great country seems intent on turning itself into a vile, mean spirited and horrid little place. The long term project to replace Great Britain with Hate Britain seems to be winning out – and Molly, Andy, Devon, Dylan and Charlie are but five of its sacrificial victims.
There’s a go fund me here.
We arrive in Sunderland. Just one night here before we crack on to London in the morning. I have chosen Tice, Hoey and Jenkyns as my team to make the final long march south. The world is watching. We rest up in our hotel. The restaurant is perfectly decent – a good wine list and the filet mignon isn’t too shabby.
I’ve always loved roughing it.
Dawn breaks over Sunderland but as we set out for the rendezvous point news reaches us that the Remoaners are also marching on London. It is now a race to the South.
The world’s press greet us.
“Good luck in this!” The nice man from Russia Today bids us politely “our President Vladimir Putin stand behind you as you bring about destruction of the EU and West – he give you our personal warm wish”.
Such a refreshing change from the ghastly BBC who clearly think this important and significant expedition is a joke! The MSM would like nothing more than for our voices to be ignored…… as I say every time they invite me on to one of their shows – or in my nightly broadcasts on LBC.
Soon we are marching along a well paved footpath – just next to the A19.
The sky and surface merge into a great sea of paleness as Hoey witters on about her cats and Tice stares forlornly into the distance muttering “I thought more people would turn out” over and over again. We are joined for the first leg of the trip by a man who introduces himself as Chris819173 from Blackburn. He seems to think I should know who he is ‘from twitter’. Apparently I once liked one of his tweets. He seems harmless enough and offers me a sip from the large bottle of Strongbow he’s carrying.
I politely decline and ask him if he’s met Hoey. But neither seems interested in speaking to the other.
Then he produces an enormous crusader helmet from a bag and pops it on his head.
After a mile or so in the pelting rain Jenkyns starts to complain about a stone in her shoe and we are forced to seek shelter in a bus stop while she empties her boot.
“Come on Jenkyns! This is a race now!” I cry. “Can’t let the Remoaners win”. I also have a luncheon appointment at 12 and the reservation can’t be moved.
Chris819173 is further slowing our progress. As Jenkyns tries to get her boot back on, he starts banging his helmet against the shelter and shouting about Soros and Tim Farron. We can’t hear exactly what he is saying on account of the helmet.
Tice helps Chris pull it off while Hoey tells us about the time she went on holiday with Andy Wigmore.
“Such a gentleman” she says “always opens the door for you”.
“I’m just going into the bushes” Chris819173 interrupts, to the relief of all “I may be gone some time”.
It’s an extraordinarily noble gesture.
I quickly gather the rest of our party together and move on. Chris819173 has sacrificed himself for the greater good of my luncheon plans – much as millions of ordinary Brexiters have – and it is important that we honour his selflessness by getting away from him as quickly as possible. Jenkyns still hasn’t got her boot on and Hoey is trying to tell me about the time her cat Freddy “the cheeky one” fell through the roof of a shed and broke some pots.
By God! This is an awful place.
“How much further is it?” I demand of Tice as we go up a slight incline.
“Just another 280 miles!” He shouts over the din of the rain and people shouting “fuck off you pointless twats” from their car windows.
“Not to London! To the rendezvous point where I am getting picked up by a bus”.
Tice stares at me incredulously, Hoey is now talking about “Arthur” and the funny things he does with string – she tries to show me photos on her phone despite the unrelenting torrent. And then – to my horror – I see Chris819173 emerging from the bushes 300 yards behind us. He’s lost his trousers and his pants and is shouting about the Rothschilds while swigging his cider.
“Run!” I order – and we pick up the pace – despite Jenkyns still not having put her boot on. Somehow Chris is gaining on us even as we wheeze along the path.
And then – just as all hope seems to be lost I spot the coach.
I climb aboard – and give a hearty wave to the rest of the team as I am driven away. Chris819173 has managed to climb onto the bumper but a couple of sharp turns later and he has ‘rejoined the march.’
They know I will be back and that my heart is with them as they go. In the meantime – God Speed – and onwards to lunch!
To be continued……..
Satirical content – as told to Otto English
Further to news that Honda is to close its Swindon plant – an employee tells us in his own words why he thinks it happened and what it will mean for thousands of workers in Swindon.
I don’t think Brexit helped matters to be honest. It’s not the major factor, but probably one that swayed it for them. The factory is getting old. They’ve already pumped millions (if not billions) into it, and the equipment is ageing. They have a car plant that’s completely empty as we are nowhere near capacity and the car plant that is running, isn’t fit for purpose… it obviously works for the time being, but the costs to update it when electric cars start taking over would be astronomical. Do I think Honda would be doing this if Brexit wasn’t happening? Probably… The factory has been in decline for a while now. In the last 4 years, we had the civic, jazz and CRV models. We are now down to 1 model, 1 operating car plant and we build around 570 cars a day. The factory as a whole has the ability to build around 1,300 (rough guess). As for the mood, it’s obviously one of disbelief. I worked the late shift last night, so we were going in as the news broke that they were intending closing us. A lot of people were shocked, some still don’t believe it will happen! The worst thing for us was the silence. There was no official notice from anyone, nor did they acknowledge it. We were just reassured that any significant news would be told to staff first. That news never came and we all found out this morning watching the news… from what I could gauge last night, no one was anti anyone really. Everyone has always speculated the plant would close eventually. It’s not any of the managers within HUM’s fault so there’s no anger being directed at them regarding the decision, just that we wasn’t told before the press. A lot of people are obviously concerned, not so much losing their jobs, but what will come after. There’s going to be around 10,000 Swindonians all out of work at the same time and there just isn’t anything there to support that sort of unemployment.
The last two years have seen the Tories, riven by in-fighting – rip themselves apart while the internecine civil war over Europe intensifies. They have shown themselves to be self-serving, self-interested and unfit for office. Undoubtedly the worst administration in a century, trapped in a moribund Groundhog Day of incompetence and division.
In any other circumstances this would have been an open goal for an opposition party. But despite the opportunities, daily presenting – Jeremy Corbyn has failed to take the fight to the enemy, twiddling his thumbs while the Tories set about the wholesale defenestration of the country.
The root of that is obvious. Corbyn hates the EU and wants Brexit as much as any Rees-Mogg or David Davis. His record speaks for itself. He has been deeply and implacably opposed to the European Union ever since he first sat in parliament. He voted to leave the EEC in 1975, he voted against the Maastricht treaty, the Lisbon treaty and he voted in favour of the EU referendum. His lacklustre, sluggish approach to campaigning in 2016 was a complete betrayal of the tens of thousands of Labour Remain activists who worked hard to avert the disaster. At the height of the EU campaign he even went on holiday.
Since then he has done nothing to steer the course set out by the very hardest of the ERG wreckers. He put a commitment to Brexit in the Labour manifesto of 2017. He has prevaricated and vacillated – but he has not led.
Corbyn’s dithering and inability to knock points off Theresa May’s lead has been matched only by his wholesale inability to stamp out racism in his party. For months he refused to adopt in full the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance’s definition of anti-Semitism causing Deputy Leader Tom Watson to warn that the party risked disappearing into a ‘vortex of eternal shame.’
At the same time he has rendered millions politically homeless. In doing so, he has set the progressive cause back a decade, while letting down the working people of Britain – whose lives his party was created to serve.
Meanwhile his increasingly bilious die-hard fans – blinded by a dangerous and at times fanatical sense of loyalty seem incapable of accepting what is patently obvious to everyone else.
Jeremy Corbyn, for all his idealism and core old school Labour values – is never going to be elected Prime Minister – and the longer he stays – the more damage will be done to the party, the movement and the country at large. At our most desperate hour of need – there is no opposition – and worse the Labour party looks set to fall apart.
With seven MPs quitting Labour is now facing a threat to its very survival. With rumours circulating that more MPs might follow – the hapless Theresa May must be doing one of her famous dances of joy and thanking her lucky stars.
It’s not too late to stem the leak before it turns into a flood. Corbyn has an opportunity to stop the destruction of Labour, the fragmentation of his great party and the devastation of Brexit.
Corbyn needs to do a disappearing act – before the party does it for him.
Last Friday Nigel Farage announced that he had joined Catherine Blaiklock’s Brexit party. By the following morning our Nigel was gushing that ‘an astonishing 35,000 have registered as supporters in the first 48 hours.’ Thrilled hacks at The Express, Westmonster and Guido Fawkes leapt up and down at the happy news and trotted out predictable pieces about how Theresa May must be terrified and how there’d be a Brexit Party government by Christmas.
Unfortunately for them – nobody seemed to have noticed a bit of a flaw with the website which appears to have been created by an 8 year old with indifferent IT skills. If you click on the link you are taken to an ‘official website’ which consists of a very simple form inviting would-be members to add their name, email address and interest. Problem is – anybody can sign up multiple times and there are absolutely no checks on the process.
Now after half a decade of messing about I retired from the whole pranking thing when “Jake Rees-Mogg” got out of control – but this was just an open goal.
And so – using a series of frankly immature pseudonyms I signed myself up a couple of dozen times and applied to be a parliamentary candidate – before deciding that this was all too good to keep to myself. I alerted my followers and invited them to visit the website and make some of their own contributions.
Mayhem followed. I have no actual means of counting how many people have joined the Brexit party thanks to my efforts but “Ivana Bollocokov” “H. Hitler” “Donna Bigwun” and chums all assure me that they have signed up multiple times. And so have their mothers, cousins, friends and the random bloke at the bus stop.
I can’t pretend I planned it. I didn’t. But it has turned into a wonderful, silly and witty British protest – though I was kept awake smiling last night at the thought of Ms. Blaicklock trying to work out if ‘Willie Stroker’ or ‘Jacob Rees-Mogg really had joined the party. I think there’s probably more mileage in it. So feel free to join up. You can sign up here
Stupid? Yes. Childish? Absolutely. But given that these people are engaged in the active destruction of the United Kingdom – wrecking their stupid website with a ton of spam feels like a small but necessary act of defiance.
Donald Tusk is in trouble after asking what that “special place in hell looks like for those who promoted Brexit.” It hasn’t gone down well. Social media collapsed into a predictable frenzy and switchboards on radio talk shows have been lighting up as angry Brexiters phone in to condemn the President of the European Council.
But it got me wondering – what would Brexit hell actually be?
The Old Masters imagined eternal damnation to be a wasteland full of people carrying heavy things. Perhaps the inhabitants of Brexit Hades would be forced to lug enormous blue passports about the place. Presumably there’d be food – an endless diet of cold spam or powdered eggs, for breakfast lunch and dinner. Maybe there’d be shops with empty shelves and asbestos ceilings and nasty coffee that only comes in jars. At night the sinners doss down in tin air raid shelters while death pours from the sky.
I imagine there’d be little colour. A miserable black and white world, where there are only three channels on TV and you spend eternity making phone calls from vandalised boxes that smell strongly of urine and cigarettes.
And of course there would be awful jobs. I mean apart from UKIP MEPs who wants to spend an eternity doing nothing? And Brexit Hell won’t pay for itself no matter what you read on the side of a bus. Maybe you get to do all those nasty jobs our ancestors did just to see how much fun they were. Hard agricultural labour or dangerous and hazardous jobs down the mines.
Brexiters might even get packed off back to school once in a while – to be given a good caning for not getting their sums right, or failing to plan for anything.
For nights out there might be Brexit pubs, run by angry looking Tim Martin impersonators – which close every Sunday and serve a limited range of tasteless beer. Cinema could comprise entirely of Donald Trump’s wretched movie cameos – on a loop – or Jim Davidson doing that ‘hilarious’ Chalky character he used to trot out in the 1970s.
Perhaps if you work hard in Brexit hell you might be lucky enough to get unusual illnesses every now and then; polio or German measles – with the emphasis on the ‘German’ bit.
But hold your Brexit horses. This vision of ghastliness isn’t a Brexit hell is it. It’s the very picture of a Brexit heaven.
Hell for the Brexiters would be a different proposition altogether.
You’d have the terrifying prospect of free movement. The endless damnation of being to live and work and travel wherever you want across a vast swathe of land. A nightmarish hades where workers rights are guaranteed and you get days off. A Perdition of choice and variety. A fiendish domain where cars and electronic items – built to high specifications – actually work. A lurid dystopia where there aren’t pointless wars and you are supported by a welfare state that provides free hospital care when you are sick; a terrifying place – where opportunity is rich and diversity is celebrated.
A place in short that is full of the very things Mr Farage and his chums have been working to dismantle.
Perhaps everything as it is – and let them all suffer. Now there’s an idea.
The arrival of the Romans in Britain in 55 B.C is the first example of mass uncontrolled immigration. Bringing their hated roads, poetry, knowledge, laws, heated floors, amphorae of wine along with their much detested civilization these Latin layabouts caused delays at A and E and took all the jobs. Finally Boudicca and a democratically elected group of early Brexiters known as the ‘Mycenae’ said ‘enough is enough’ and drove the Romans into the sea before building the White Cliffs of Dover – to stop them coming back. Explain any of this and self-styled ‘intellectuals’ will tell you it is factually wrong. It isn’t. It happened.
There are fanatical left wing historians who try and teach children that the Anglo-Saxons came from what is now Germany. This is an absolute lie with no evidence whatsoever to back it up. It’s also deeply insulting to suggest that British people who liberated the world from the Nazi tyranny are descendants of Hitler. If that’s the case why do we speak English? Think about it for ten seconds. It’s absolute nonsense and anyone who says it is a jerk.
Shakey wrote a lot of famous musicals like Cats, Camelot and Grease but they’re not my sort of thing. I saw Grease once – it was a joke. A lot of singing and dancing and no mention at all of what the E.U. had done to that once great nation. Shakespeare should ask Yanis Varoufakis if it was all singing and dancing when the banks collapsed rather than trying to appeal to lefty West End audiences with songs about the “EU” being the one everyone wants. The people have spoken Stevens. Move on.
When Nelson defeated Napoleon at Waterloo you can only imagine what it must have done to the traffic. I quite often drive along the South Bank of the Thames and it beggars belief that one of the greatest battles in history took place there. Guess what though? There’s not even a plaque to commemorate it. Sadiq ‘hates’ our history. On top of his column in Trafalgar Square England’s greatest General must have had a bird’s eye view of the battle, but tragically he was a sitting duck. A Frenchman shot him dead at the moment of his triumph. And yet – there are people who visit France to this day and who never mention this terrible atrocity.
World War Won is called that because ‘Great Britain’ won it. Fact. People think life was hard back then but it was a far gentler world. If you died they gave you a free gravestone AND a poppy to be remembered by. I wear mine every year and it’s really gigantic because I am a bigger patriot than you.
Is called that because we won that one ‘too’. But guess what. Nobody thanked us. Instead we were forced to join the EEC and fund it all while our lads were put in jail.
Having liberated the Africans from their lands and Indians from the responsibility of running their own country – for I don’t know – A VERY LONG TIME – we were made to give up some of our Empire. Thankfully the main part of it had been hidden in the South Atlantic for safe keeping and remains there to this day despite the best efforts of the Argies.
All of this stuff is fact – but dare to say ANY of it and the left wing luvvies and so called historians come at you with THEIR version of it. They’re entitled to their views – but they’ve got it all wrong and should delete their twitter.
All this cliff-edge nonsense is – bollocks. All the stuff you buy from the EU can be bought in the UK and the 99% of the world that is not France or any of those other poncey countries where by law you have to be a Muslim.
I proved this point last year by running an experiment at “The Knackered Whippet” my pub in Essex. We took some of our biggest selling products, replaced them with alternatives – and guess what – nobody noticed.
Stella Artois might be very popular among lefty establishment figures, drinking it in their Mayfair clubs but every sip is a betrayal of British workers. Stella Artois is a Belgian beer made by foreigners and I’m not having that muck in my pub no more. So we got some good quality British urine put it in a soda stream, called it ‘Harlow Stars’ and sold it back to them. Customers bought pints of the stuff. Better still I managed to sell it to them for 10p less than that Belgian muck. By passing the reduction on to the customers I saved them money and me the trouble of learning Europish or whatever it is they speak in Belgium. So win, win Mr Barnier – you muppet.
What could be more British than a Hamburger? Almost anything! For decades I’ve been selling them in my establishments not realizing that they come from a little town called Frankfurt in – you guessed it – Nazi Germany. Soon changed that. Now the customers in The Knackered Whippet enjoy “Chelmsfords.” There’s a choice of topping – with a bun or without. The beef in those burgers comes from trusted suppliers parked up behind the big cash and carry outside Jaywick. They’ve got a great sense of humour those lads – when I ask them where they source it they give me this big wink and say “‘horse’ but you keep it to yourself big man or you wake up next to head of one”. Just love those guys. Real British entrepreneurs.
We took our 2nd best-selling spirit ‘vodka’ and replaced it with a locally distilled ‘craft ethanol’ made by a man I met lying on the street. He runs what he calls an ‘artisan’ shed in the toilet of his home. Normally the lefty luvvies would be all over this product – but guess what – because it’s made by a working class white guy called Derek they start banging on about ‘health and safety’ and all that nonsense. They’d rather have foreign made muck like champagne than the stuff Derek sells in plastic bags out of his garage because they hate this country, plain and simple.
We call it ‘Snogcar’ because the first punter who tried it ended up trying to get off with the exhaust of a vehicle parked up outside. It’s true that most of the regulars are now blind but that’s got ‘f’ all to do with Snogcar. It’s the EU and I can prove it. I just don’t want to.
Our success at Ditherspoons was such that I tried to tell Mrs May about it. But guess what – they turned me away at the gates of Downing Street saying: “Go home mate, it’s three a.m. and you’re pissed”. Even the coppers are bent in this country nowadays. And Dime bars aren’t called Dime bars any more either.
Here are some other ideas:
A lot of rubbish talked about insulin running out post Brexit. Load of garbage. Put newspapers down in your loft instead and invest one of those log burning stoves. Climate change is a lie anyway. Big con.
There’s an easy way to solve the Backstop. Tell the Irish to fuck off. Easy. Easiest thing in the world. Couldn’t be easier.
Jean Claude Juncker and the other lot:
The foreigners as I like to call them are all playing it cool at the moment. They’re all like: “Oh La! La!” and that as they drink brandy and eat croissants – but they won’t be laughing once they’ve sampled some of my “Harlow Stars” let me tell you. No mate. They won’t be laughing at all.