Last Friday, Britons exhaled as ties to that evil empire, the European Union, were cut.

Conservative London Mayor, Boris Johnson, the face of “Brexit” in England, hailed the “glorious opportunity” while David “Move On” Cameron made a tearful resignation speech. Not one condolence card was seen from Jamaica.

There were lower profile reactions.  Somewhere in Chelsea, within the Royal Hospital, a cleaning lady received an emergency call as an urn suddenly turned over and the ashes scattered. When the elderly charlady arrived to sweep up, she noticed the ashes had co-incidentally arranged themselves into a sentence “I TOLD YOU SO!” She who always said it couldn’t work had finally been vindicated.

I wonder if one day that, you’ll say that, you care.
If you say you love me madly, I’ll gladly, be there
Like a puppet on a string.

A firm believer in small government who’d expected the EC to be limited to ensuring free trade and effective competition, she’d sounded a grave warning in 1988: “We have not successfully rolled back the frontiers of the state in Britain, only to see them re-imposed at a European level, with a European super-state exercising a new dominance from Brussels”

Then there was the victory party thrown by British Sausage. At a well attended Press Conference, British Sausage asserted that an imminent invasion by German teenage King Bratwurst had been averted by English voters.  “Imagine” a Cumberland sausage at the head table recoiled in horror “if Bratwurst had succeeded in replacing British sausage for breakfast? What next? Would nothing be sacred? As for you traitors” he spat at Haggis, the Scot, and Irish Drisheen huddled at the table’s edge “You vote to remain with those sauerkrauts? I tell you, if Bratwurst had won, Blutworst wouldn’t be far behind.”

“Nay” shouted Haggis “Nothing will ever replace traditional Scottish blood sausage.”

Newmarket Sausage, who contributed six million pounds of pork to the “Brexit” campaign, decided to speak: “Look” he said “we’ve dodged a bullet and should be grateful.  There was no end to British sausage’s diminution in sight. Who knows? Maybe even sacrosanct English Fry-Up wasn’t safe.

Love is just like a merry-go-round
with all the fun of the fair.
One day I’m feeling down on the ground.
Then I’m up in the air.
Are you leading me on?
Tomorrow will you be gone?

On the Continent, reaction was more subdued. Frenchmen quietly celebrated no longer being required to pinch British women’s bottoms. Construction workers made the short journey from Calais to Coquelles to begin bricking up the Chunnel’s French exit.  In Brussels, counter-measures were contemplated including banning British Football clubs from the Champions League and automatically eliminating England, both Irish teams, and Wales from 2016’s Euros.

I may win on the roundabout
then I’ll lose on the swings.
In or out, there is never a doubt
just who’s pulling the strings
I’m all tied up in you
But where’s it leading me to?

Britain will now be led out of colonialism and into true independence.  It’ll be able to make its own immigration policy.  No longer will House of Lords’ decisions be subject to appeal to the European Court of Justice.  Brittania once again rules its hairy waves AND will NEVER be slaves to filthy frogs or Belgians with waxed moustaches.  Britons will plough their own furrow in the world and gladly revoke their hard won constitutional right to be thought brighter than Americans.

Of course, there’ll be rumblings of discontent from Scottish and Northern Ireland scoundrels who gave the EU a resounding vote of confidence as colonial master of choice over the English. Scots in particular must be ruing dropping a dolly at first slip the other day when it voted AGAINST Scottish independence losing sight for a scotch-induced moment of the bloody, futile battles fought by their Highlander ancestors to return the Stuarts to the English Throne. Now Scotland and Northern Ireland must once again look to Westminster for nurture.

I wonder if one day that, you’ll say that, you care.
If you say you love me madly, I’ll gladly, be there
like a puppet on a string.

In 1967, British pop sensation Sandie Shaw won the Eurovision Song Contest with Puppet on a String. Back home, former British puppet, Ken Boothe, rushed to Brentford Road to cover the song before the original graced our shores (no You-Tube those days) and fumbled the ball, getting the lyrics wrong.  Still, his version is acknowledged as superior in every sense.

Peace and Love


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