By LUCY SKIPPING
Ten Million Brits cry, “This is not our country anymore!”
as these two Zionist puppets fight for the upper hand
I wake up this morning to scenes of total chaos. The first thing I do is throw a few clothes on and stagger off to Wetherspoons, my local pub restaurant in the little market town of Newton Abbot in the south of England. Here I intend to grab a light continental breakfast and catch up on the television news.
I am greeted by the Pub Philosopher, nicknamed Redneck Ron, who is surrounded as usual by his coterie of foul-mouthed fans. Redneck Ron (‘RR’ for short) has seldom been known to utter a sentence without the F-word in it.
RR says to me as I totter into the pub:
“Come and join us, bitch! So what do you think of the f***ing election, huh? Me and my buddies here are all thinking of emigrating to f***ing Antarctica. You comin’?”
I join RR at his table, not because I like the guy and his subhuman clique but because I like mixing with them lower classes. I’m an awful snob. I get a perverse delight from rubbing shoulders with the common people and getting to know how they think and speak.
Soon I am sipping my coffee and learning all about the general election.
“I think this country would be a lot better off if all you horrid people pushed off to the South Pole,” I remark pleasantly. “Only trouble is, the penguins will not be too pleased at the new arrivals!”
RR grins, baring his yellow fangs. He is in late sixties and is not at all put out by my rudeness. Politeness from me he would regard as a serious threat. Foul language wrapped in smiley badinage is the only language he understands.
“You wanna hear about the f***ing elections? Listen up good, bitch. Cos you ain’t heard nothing yet. That f***ing twat Theresa May has ended up with a f***ing hung parliament. She needed 326 seats to get a f***ing majority and she ain’t got that. She’s only got 318!”
“Too bad,” I sigh. “Goodbye, Theresa!”
“Nope, it ain’t goodbye. Not by a long chalk! The weak c**t is hanging on grimly to power. She’s gotta cosy up to the DUP and she’ll have a working majority if the DUP give her their full support.”
One of the fan club, a well-nourished lady in her forties who has just worked her way through a 2000 calorie English breakfast, chirps up: “Wot’s the DUP, Ron?”
Ron glares at Well Nourished Lady.
“DUP stands for ‘Democratic Unionist Party’. Doncha know that, silly bitch? Them’s the Northern Ireland blokes wot want to remain in the Union with the Brits. And they’re strongly pro-Brexit. They won 10 seats.”
“So if they join Theresa and her Tories, with their 10 seats, that gives Theresa a working majority. Theresa needs 326 seats to get a government that works. She’s got 318. Not enough!”
“Right. So if DUP give her their 10 seats she’s got 318 plus ten. That’s 328 seats, right?
Ron looks at Well Nourished Lady in mock stupefaction.
“You never told me you was a f***ing mathematical genius,” he says.
Well Nourished Lady looks pleased.
The facts, I was to learn over breakfast, are these. The Conservatives have captured 44 per cent of the vote, Labour 41 per cent. With the help of the Democratic Unionist Party (DUP) in Northern Ireland, the Conservatives will be able to form a working government. Just about. But it’s not going to be easy. Because the Northern Ireland party is going to exact a stiff price for its support.
Theresa May, who seemed to be in an almost invincible position only six weeks ago, with a huge lead in the polls, took a gamble by calling a general election. She thought she would win easily. That it would be a piece of cake. Her gamble failed spectacularly. She has lost all authority. All her charisma, such as it was, has evaporated in a puff of smoke. She is now a lame duck prime minister.
Later today, Theresa will have tea and cucumber sandwiches with the Queen of England. This is a time-honoured tradition. The PM pops over to Buckingham Palace and tells her Majesty: “Hey, Queen, I’ve got a working government. So it’s full steam ahead. I’ve just come to tell you this.”
And the Queen nods politely and says: “Well done, Theresa! You have my blessings. So off you go and get on with it!”
Not those exact words maybe, but something like it.
Meanwhile, back at the chalkface among the rabble, it’s all gloom and doom as the pound plummets and Brexit lies in tatters. Redneck Ron and his rotten borough are up in arms. “Wot we got here? More of them f***ing n*****s pouring in from Africa and wotnot, it ain’t our f***ing c***ry any more!”
Right. That’s about it. The Brits are not happy bunnies this morning. Gnashing of teeth has reached epidemic proportions. Rope sales have soared as more Brits plan to hang themselves. Most popular google search engine question from UK this morning: “How do I tie a noose?”
The only winners in this election? I won’t mention their names. Ron and his rabble ain’t got a clue who they are. They think all their miseries spring from “them rich toffs”.
If only they knew!