As I set my quill to parchment, Great Britain is on the cusp of its greatest ever era.
Thanks to Brexit, we will soon be able to sell our abundant exports – our fine wines, our raffia mats, our replica plastic policeman’s helmets, our frozen spotted dick, our Prince Edward commemoration pewter jars – to eager international buyers without let or hindrance from the Common Market middle man.
Luxembourg will just have to lump it. Our currency, the pound sterling, is already worth almost as much as the rest of Europe’s, the Euro, put together. It will surely be a matter of time before the nations of the former Commonwealth are vying to rejoin the Empire, putting behind them at last the folly of independence and putting once again their mineral resources at our disposal.
Think of it; Canada supplying our timber and our syrups, Australia reverting to its former status as an antipodean internment camp and India putting aside its futile ethnic squabbles and becoming once more a homogenous nation of dusky, industrious beavers eager to learn about the finer points of silly mid-off.
Even in sports we see the measure of our superiority. England’s recent 2-2 draw against Scotland was proof perfect of the Union working together in harmony, building up an impressive goals tally for the United Kingdom as a whole without continental let or hindrance. The score should actually have read Great Britain 4 – Germany 0.
Meanwhile, the seditious media who criticised Britain’s performance in the recent World Athletics Tournament overlooked one thing. How much more quickly would our runners have reached the finish line if they had been running over distances measured in British yards, rather than Belgium-imposed metres?
At the helm, thankfully, of the oak ship of prosperity that is HMS Britain is not Mr Cameron, whose resemblance to a ham doubtless provides a genetic explanation for his well-known sexual proclivities, nor that fumbling, elongated garden gnome minus the fishing rod of his senses, Mr Corbyn. It is, thankfully, that personification of the rationale, cluefulness and coherence of Brexit, Theresa May.
Harsh words have been spoken about Theresa May. They say she has all the usefulness, charm and empathy of a malfunctioning traffic meter. They say that when she speaks, she works her mouth like a wooden dummy whose ventriloquist owner has popped out to a public house and left a looped tape recording in his place. They say that she is so hopeless she would be unable to find her lodgings in Downing Street without the assistance of a policeman.
Worse, she faces the same accusation as that faced by Mrs Thatcher – that she is, in fact, a woman. This is much a slur on her and her wife Philip May (née Hammond) as it was on Mrs Thatcher and her similarly comely and discreet wife Denis. Just because of her curiously pitched voice and extravagant taste in fashion does not mean that lurking behind those skirts are not the strong, healthy, normal, pumping organs of a true statesman.
Granted, I myself have felt curious feelings of a sexual nature towards Mrs May but these I have corrected through a rigorously punitive programme of violent, bare-backed flagellation. Having whipped my manservant Seppings thus, I find that these perverted urges generally subside.
Mrs May has endorsed the return of grammar schools. I heartily endorse this. I would rather our youth study courses in How To Unsplit An Infinitive rather than their present fare of Atheist Studies and Transgender Workshops commonplace in our sixth forms.
She has made it her top priority to restore foxhunting; we all recall the dark days of the 1970s, of discontent, rubbish piled high and foxes so rampant that they even had their own television shows. Let us hope that she follows this with a restoration of the Corn Laws, whose repeal in 1846 was directly responsible for the pass from which we are only just emerging today.
Yes, she has had a dark past. Yes, she ran through wheat fields, an egregious act of trespass. Had she done so on my own estates, I would naturally have blown her head off with a long-distance rifle, arranging for her body to be returned to the vicarage with a note of explanation. Thankfully, the Hand of God ensured that her folly did not lead her into my cross-hairs.
Mrs May once described the Tory Party as “The Nasty Party”; I am surprised that she has not made more of this magnificently coined compliment in party literature and conference slogans. It is understood as much among Negress vocal band singers such as Miss Janet Jackson as it is in the bar rooms of Britain’s most exclusive golf clubs that “nasty” is a quality to be prized, shrunk from only by Messrs Namby and Pamby of the opposition benches. Only an admirably nasty politician could interrupt a British nurse in mid-whine and inform her that there was “no magic money tree” even as a stash of enchanted coins glowed visibly from inside the pocket of the pair of the £1000 slacks she was wearing.
Windows XP. Strong and stable. pic.twitter.com/SiXPifCDsE
— JOE (@JOE_co_uk) May 13, 2017
Finally, she must be praised as one of Britain’s finest political orators. It is a shame that Mr Churchill, not she, did not write that momentous speech in June 1940. Instead of Mr Churchill’s inebriated and irresponsible talk of fighting on beaches, we would have had the altogether more stirring words of Mrs May; “I have always believed in a strong, stable and secure Britain. I believe we have the strength and stability to stay stable and strong. I maintain we will invade Germany and beat them. But we are living in the real world. No magic money tree to fund a ground army or defence force. I have always said, stable, strong and secure. We will make an exit from Dunkirk commencing in 1947.” The war would have been over by Christmas.
