In just 12 short months we’ll give a massive two digit Churchillian peace salute to those unelected, pasta munching, frog leg chewing, nonsense mumbling, foreign bastards, and declare freedom once more in our green and pleasant land.
Paste tables will be laid out from Lands End to John o’ Groats, covered with the Union Flag and weighed down with a bountiful offering of truly British delicacies like tripe and pies.
We’ll declare it Britain Day! It’ll be a national holiday and we’ll celebrate by downing warm Carling and glassing anyone who makes fuck eyes at our wives.
The homeless will rise from their spiced induced comas, step into their new homes and then join us, showered, clean and employed.
Hospital staff will wheel in the terminally ill from the wet car parks and treat, nay, heal them, without those meddling Eastern Europeans scuppering their chances anymore.
The Tories will revive Winston Churchill from his cryo-sleep to rule us once more with his fair iron fist, and our distant colonies will come begging to us, offering up their servitude in our new and brilliant re-instated Empire.
Supermarkets accross the land will close down, giving way to independent butchers and green grocers, with sturdy British names like Smith and Jones, and within ten years we’ll be saying goodbye to those pesky ration books.
Cotton mills will rise up across the north once more like temples of hope, and I’ll be able to earn an honest days pay for my sixteen hour shift, as I look forward to Christmas day when I’ll finally be able to relax with the family, all twenty of us in our cosy 2 up, 2 down terraced house.
After all, it’s only fair for working class scum like me, and life will be so much simpler without those interfering unions telling us what to do, or those confusing human rights.
Bring on 2019 for true freedom.