Brexit Fable 1
Mr Cthulhu: Who here wants tentacles? Much better than human limbs.
Sleepwalkers: We do! Gimme tentacles!
Mr Cthulhu eviscerates them
Sleepwalkers: WTF! Our guts are hanging out!
Mr Cthulhu: Nah, that’s tentacles.
Sleepwalkers die in agony
Brexit Fable 2
Taxi Driver: Where to?
Passenger: Paradise, mate.
Driver: This YouTube video shows that Paradise is actually Hell. Stay put?
Passenger: Just take me to Paradise.
Driver: But you’ll burn forever.
Passenger: DON’T CARE. TAKE ME TO PARADISE!
Brexit Fable 3
Mr Phuq: Let’s build a house together! I’ve got enough bricks for a wall.
The people: Yes, let’s!
Mr Phuq: I feel stifled by this house you’ve subjected me to. I’m off.
Mr Phuq removes his wall & uses the bricks to build himself a kennel.
Brexit Fable 4
The Bird King: You should stab yourself in the face with these scissors.
The Bird King: To show the “experts” who’s boss! The experts who tell you that stabbing yourself in the face with these scissors will harm you. Be a man!
Bloke: Oh, Ok then.
Brexit Fable 5
Goat Man: Yay! Let’s eat this beef. ALL OF IT!
Sheep Boy: Ok. Hang on, it looks kinda rank. Is it supposed to be green? Also, it stinks.
Goat Man: We said we’d eat it, so we’ll eat it.
Sheep Boy: OK.
They devour the rotten meat and die in agony.
Brexit Fable 6
Maggot: We must push our planet out of the sun’s orbit if we are to free ourselves of its bureaucratic, unelected tyranny!
Masses: YES! Deep Space, not Deep State!
One: Won’t that destroy life on earth?
Maggot: Your point is…?
One: Nothing. Let’s do it!
Brexit Fable 7
Imbecile: Hey, who wants to shoot themselves in the face?
52%: WE DO!
Imbecile: Great! That means you all have to, btw.
52%: Pass me the gun!
Brexit Fable 8
Fucker: Hey, if you eat this tablet I’ll plant a money tree in your garden.
Credulous bloke: Oh, OK. What’s in the tablet, btw?
Fucker: Don’t worry about it. Cyanide. Nothing much.
Credulous bloke: I like money trees. (Eats cyanide pill.)
let me be clear BrickShit means BrickShit means BrickShit means BrickShit bra-caaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwww
well um I couldn’t possibly piffle and wotsit and so on and so forth and letterboxes and piles of piffle and wotsit and what-not and so on and so forth a jolly good future leader future Pimm’s o’clock and what-not Prime o’clock piffle Minister and so forth
a return to the perfectly simple arrangements made during the Troubles whereby divisions were maintained exacerbated inflamed and security forces were able to carry out their very simple duties such as exchanging gunfire suppressing riots disposing of bombs all perfectly simple and sensible
and there was a kid there a fifteen-year-old with a generic Ramones t-shirt you know the one the one they all wear nowadays the generic one with white on black and the circle and crest the Ramones t-shirt you’ve seen a million times on kids everywhere they’re all wearing the same one from Primark or Tesco or wherever no bloody imagination the same Ramones t-shirt and of course none of them even like the Ramones probably none of them have even heard of the Ramones let alone bought their albums gone to their gigs they’ve all trotted off to Primark or Tesco and bought the same fucking Ramones t-shirt without knowing the first thing about the Ramones and what they stood for without knowing the first thing about punk rock these kids shuffling around in generic Ramones t-shirts they got from supermarkets or their mums got them from supermarkets when they don’t know the story behind the t-shirt don’t know the story of the band or the music Christ they’d have a heart attack if they heard the music they have no idea it’s not exactly Justin Bieber is it not exactly Taylor fucking Swift they have no idea what the Ramones represent the music they made what the music meant it’s like when everyone was running around in colourful Che Guevara t-shirts remember that everyone was running around in Che Guevara t-shirts grown men and women not just kids though admittedly it was mostly the young crowd that were into it running around in their generic Che Guevara t-shirts they’d bought in The Gap or Next or Top Shop or wherever thinking it was really cool not having the slightest fucking idea the tinniest fucking idea who the fuck Che Guevara was or what the fuck he stood for it wasn’t like everyone was suddenly reading Trotsky and plotting the overthrow of the bourgeoisie far from it they were nipping into Starbucks in their Che Guevara t-shirts and slurping lattes before sauntering down to House of Fraser and Debenhams and buying overpriced home furnishings not a thought for the oppressed masses the needy the disadvantaged Che Guevara meant nothing to them his image was just cool they probably didn’t even know his fucking name or if they did they had some dim feeling that he may have been a screen icon after all wasn’t he in that film what was it you know the one about touring South America on a motorbike what a cool thing to do that’s all his face meant to them cool just cool nothing else there was no other story behind it and they didn’t crave another story the one the fashion retailers had sold them was fine Che Guevara was cool as fuck and now his face had been co-opted by capitalism any alternative to that economic system was unthinkable the bourgeoisie had won and it’s the same now exactly the same now with the Ramones it’s like punk never happened everything is just image and entertainment
are you having a fucking laugh the Ramones were not entertainment punk was not an image it was an attitude a lifestyle a revolt against the social cultural political economic musical status quo the Sex Pistols had everyone in the Establishment shitting themselves they nearly brought down the monarchy they pissed all over the economy they destroyed the UK Top 40 and nothing was the same ever again are you fucking joking a Sex Pistols t-shirt is a symbol of insurrection a Ramones t-shirt is a symbol of insurrection everyone should be shitting themselves when someone comes down the street in a Ramones t-shirt are you trying to wind me up they weren’t just a band it wasn’t just music they destroyed everything that had gone before their first album killed half the people that heard it the songs were like poison to the old farts thousands were admitted to hospitals across the USA and Britain complaining of extreme nausea and existential dread so don’t tell me it was just music it was a revolution and these fucking kids today should leave it alone it’s not theirs it’s mine it’s ours it means nothing to them why do they even think Ramones t-shirts are cool they were never meant to be cool they were meant to be dangerous they think their generic Ramones t-shirts are cool because they’re told to think that by their corporate masters at Primark and Tesco the white on black the circle and crest have been neutered punk’s been neutered it’s had its bollocks chopped off punk’s bollocks were chopped off in a boardroom but never mind the bollocks here’s a generic t-shirt
This week Chimera Consultancy (advisors to big brands Apple, Peach, Melon, Mammon, Moloch and McDonalds) offered Prime Minister Theresa May some simple advice that, if adopted, would solve many of the UK’s big problems, including crime, education and health.
Here are the recommendations in full:
Recommendation one: the NHS
We recommend you replace the NHS with Chimera Wealthcare. We are at the cutting edge of unethical profiteering.
Recommendation two: education
We recommend you replace all schools with Chimera EduOutlets, run by Mechamanagers and staffed by robots.
Recommendation three: law and order
We recommend you outsource all policing to Chimera Insecurity Services. Crime figures will plummet when there are no police officers left to record (let alone investigate) criminal activities. Home Secretary Amber Rudd has already expressed an interest in this recommendation.
Recommendation four: the army
We recommend you disband the army and replace it with Chimera MaxiKill, your comprehensive war solution.
Recommendation five: religion
We recommend you abolish all religions and make attendance at the Church of Chimera compulsory for all. Worship of MEGACROCODOG should be everyone’s civic duty. Chimera puts the fun in fundamentalism!
Recommendation six: government
We recommend you abolish the government and appoint Nigel Farage as CEO of United Kingdom Enterprises Ltd.
Any similarities between these recommendations and those made by Chimera Consultancy to David Cameron in 2014 are purely coincidental.
In my day, you could buy a polythene bag of cigarette butts for 5p. And everyone had a proper haircut.
In my day, plumbers gave free vasectomies whilst reciting patriotic poems. And all the buses were red.
In my day, there was always more than enough sex to go round, with plenty left for seconds. And England was the only country.
In my day, you had to wear rubber pants. No one complained. It kept the doctor away. And it never rained, except on bank holidays.
In my day, sofas were encased in iron. Not like these horrid modern fabric covers. And everyone knew how to twerk.
In my day, we all loved a good war. The kids played genocide in the streets. You could wander around naked and no one complained.
In my day, everyone had a commemorative Sex Pistols mug. Tea never tasted better. You could throw your dog out the window if you wanted.
In my day, the public bogs were palaces. You could get your ears waxed whenever you liked. And nobody farted or said, “Fuck.”
In my day, everyone read Borges. None of that Harry Potter. The grass cut itself. Houses grew on trees.
In my day, you were allowed to nuke people who looked at you funny. We all respected the shopkeepers. And the flu hadn’t been invented.
In my day, you could get Spotify on the wireless for two bob a week. And energy saving lightbulbs were so bright, your face burned.
In my day, babies were delivered to your door. They only cried in the afternoons. They were good as gold. Cats smelt of vanilla.
In my day, a man’s erection was strong enough to lift a car. Criminals were grateful when we flogged them. Curtains were fireproof.
In my day, glass slippers were fitted as standard. Everyone was entitled to a prince. They sold off the broken ones to Taiwan.
In my day, a man could hold his breath for five weeks, if he wanted. TVs were made of platinum and elbow grease.
In my day, you could take your kids to an execution and no one minded. People had manners and didn’t show their teeth, ever.
In my day, most people were Olympic-standard swimmers. You couldn’t move for bald men in Speedos. And gravy was as thick as mud.
In my day, you could get drunk on a teaspoon of shandy. Carrots were 100% carrot. None of them additives. And burglars tidied up after themselves.
In my day, everyone was taught to sight read music at school. We had composers coming out of our ears. Silence didn’t exist.
In my day, it snowed to order on Christmas Day. The presents were so big, it took four people to lift them. We all played Monopoly in the woods.
In my day, 1+1 could equal any number you wanted. There was a magical kingdom in every wardrobe. And dreams were more realistic.
In my day, the central heating was so good, you could cook a chicken with it. We were all used to the heat. If our eyes melted, we just laughed.
In my day, you were allowed to kidnap anyone you wanted, as long as your ransom note didn’t have any bad grammar in it.
In my day, we all wore Andrei Tarkovsky t-shirts on Sundays. No one thought anything of it. And nosey neighbours minded their own business.
In my day, mirrors showed you the future. We often danced in the streets all night. You were allowed the broken clocks for free.
In my day, chocolate was made from blood and was much better for you. Gobstoppers lasted forever. We all slept standing up, like real men.
The oven was open and we were invited in. The herons had forgotten their knives. Rainbows were out of the question.
Inside it was red and black and red again. Abandon all hope, etc. The ghost of Nigel Farage sang patriotic songs to the broken weasels.
I tried to ask what time it was but the men in Christmas jumpers ignored me. There was some anxiety over Star Wars spoilers.
When you appeared on the scene you gave everyone a load of sass. We were hasgtag and awks. Piglets and piffle baked in a pie.
The cool people were the worst. They paraded their hideous oiled beards throughout the catacombs. Light and badgers fell from my ears.
Facebook frowned and its pages burned. Some considered this a good sign. Hands up, baby, hands up. Give me your love, give me give me…
So we toured Syria and Palestine and Snapchat and Bake Off. It was very entertaining. We all had theories. I piled mine around me.
We disagreed on most things but agreed on building walls. Those fuckers were wrong about everything and my testicles were bigger than theirs.
I updated my profile so they’d cower in the shadow of my gargantuan testicles. Other hairy apes yelled Make America Great Again.
It was still red and black and red again inside the oven. I checked my timeline. Funnies were happening all over the world. Tweet tweet.
The brighter, better selves we had so carefully constructed on social media turned on us, cut our throats, exposed our ugly meat.
Days lasted seconds. World-changing events came in salvos. I washed my corpse in brine and set it on a beach, so it could look at the sea.
Others arrived, albinos born in the ovens, chattering and squeaking, trying to persuade my corpse to leave. I ate a banana.
Sex was sold thinly sliced. We applied it to our ears, mouths and (most of all) eyes. It made our brains misfire but we were addicted.
Other narcotic commodities included reality TV, salt, sarcasm, death metal, current affairs, Happy Meals and empathy. Traders made a killing.
Celebrities lined up to be seen while you flooded the slums with blood. Dip a finger, make a wish. Monochrome poverty in glossy magazines.
Katie Hopkins tried to trigger Armageddon by writing aggressively about her dislike of tomatoes. Clouds shrugged and drifted on.
These were the worst of times, or so we liked to believe. We wrote emails to our past selves, warning them.
The sea stole up on my corpse when I wasn’t looking and turned it to stone. Waves hissed derisively when I realised what had happened.
The oven was red and black and red again. Did I mention that, or was it you? Your iPhone won’t save you. Selfies erode your face.
Warning: Your dreams save automatically to the cloud. This can cause embarrassment or death when they appear on other devices you own.