Wait, Is This All A Joke?

I’ve finally worked out what’s going on. None of this is real. Quite clearly in the real world you would not get hundreds of thousands of people marching in order to demand that they be ruled from abroad with very little democracy by people that hate them. That just would not happen. Nobody is that stupid, surely. Nor would one of the most successful nations in human history end up begging to be thoroughly shafted like a Thai lady-boy presented with a platinum MasterCard. No nation could possibly go from twice saving the world and being the most influential nation on the planet for 400 years only to be populated with millions of people who want to suck Belgian c*ck forever. That’s just not possible.

It’s my own fault really. I mean the warning signs have been there for ages. What real nation would refuse to implement 17.4 million votes and suddenly start behaving like an 18th century rotten borough in which normal people don’t get a say and are told by rich people to shut the f*ck up and carry on working when they do speak? What Parliament could possibly, in real life, be as corrupt and diseased and degraded as this one, the supposedly real one, in Britain today? It’s quite clearly a spoof, a satire, an Orwellian nightmare or a particularly savage piece of Swiftian farce. Think about it and it becomes quite obvious that it is all a work of fiction.

The main plot is one of those damsel in distress costume dramas or 19th century bestsellers. It’s not Dickens because we haven’t had any cripples with a heart of gold featuring yet, although we have had a malevolent dwarf in a starring role. It’s written by someone with a more pessimistic view of human nature. There are few if any sympathetic characters. Instead it seems like a thousand pages of crooks, cheats, chancers, hypocrites, liars, dissemblers, blackmailers, pimps, prostitutes, sordid perverts, assembled thieves, zealots, maniacs and dictators. There is only one sympathetic character really, and she suffers an endless catalogue of abuses. Poor Britannia, raped by one Prime Minister after another, by a shuffling, panting, gurning line of politicians both Major and minor, each taking a turn on our unwilling heroine.

And of course even when the poor creature works up the courage to try and leave her abusive relationship, the cold, demanding, Gothic villain husband has other ideas. We see this dastardly lord kicking and trampling the uncomplaining Britannia, stamping on her face, blaming her for the bruises his blows have inflicted. And crowds of effete well wishers look on, knowing how sick it all is, and doing nothing about it.