Innocence for the guilty, cold blooded murder for the innocent. This is the EU we are leaving. Let’s get on with it.

metough Over many years, I have had passionate arguments with other observers and writers about the ‘timing’ of biting satire in relation to the consequences of doing what is makeshift, illegal and cynical as opposed to what is right, proper and painful. Yesterday brought a surreal climax to an insane year during which worthless politicians and blind fluffies serially allowed their reelection, denial and shattered moral compasses to deliver us all into Hell. I apologise if this piece offends. Obviously, you have the freedom not to read it if you wish.

Meanwhile, far far down the rabbit hole, Theresa Maypole was conversing with the Queen of Farts.

“Is she innocent?” the Queen asked, “this Lograde woman, what think you girl?”

“Well,” Theresa replied thoughtfully, “we don’t know until we’ve seen the evidence”.

“Stuff and nonsense!” screamed the QoF, “off with her head!”

At which point, President Dullard entered the room, his face very slightly altered from its normal Flat Screen repose….as if, perhaps, he had been reading an opinion poll.

“Well,” he whined, “the Court has found Liargade guilty”.

“Whose Court?” the Queen demanded, “Certainly not my Court!”

“Your Mirakelness,” observed President Pondlife, “your jurisdiction does not apply here…”

The Queen of Farts pulled an odd, ugly face.  It was a contortion, and seemed to Theresa out of proportion….an abhortion that prefaced, perhaps, more extortion. This Brexit business was very confusing for a little girl, however tall she might be.

Mein Fuhrerinprinzip, ahem, that is, my jurisdiction is valid everywhere in the European Bunion,” she insisted, “I hereby decree her pardoned”.

“But she’s guilty,” said Theresa. President Hidebound smiled, although to those present it seemed like he had swallowed some pride. Again.

“You foolish little child,” he observed kindly, “how little you understand of European Law”.

Just then, the Fat Fart’s minder Frack Tombola flew in. For he was a magic Yiswekann, granted wings by the guardian of the Arab Spring.

“The insolent fools have found Chrissie Laggard guilty,” the Queen told Frack.

“Bummer,” he observed, adding, “kin’t you yerpeens handle some Page One law perversion without screwin’ id up?” But the QoF snorted.

“It is done,” she announced, “Mudguard has been pardoned – it is but a mere trifle”.

“Nice work Fart-drawers,” Tomsmarmy replied, “Any o’ that trifle left? Only I like it, yer know, with cherries and chocolate the way the Krauts do it…”

There was an awkward silence. President Holyleft examined his shoes closely.

“What is a Kraut?” Theresa asked politely.

“It is a type of vegetable,” the Queen responded, “fashioned from blood, steel, strict rectitude and Herrenvolk”.

“And what is Herrenvolk?” enquired Maypole.

“A type of fish that feeds on Untermenschen,” said the Queen, visible irritated.

“And what is Unter….”


“No actually,” Theresa replied meekly, “I think I should leave now…”

“At last!” Holbein exclaimed, “and not beferr tam, yer perfidious streak of Albion peess”.

“So,” said Tombarmy, quickly changing the subject, “I er, I hear there’s been a shootin’ in Turkey?”

“Bien sur,” muttered Hillbeans, “Christmas has come early”.

“It is a mere bargaining ploy by Erdocon,” said the Queen, popping another Bockwurst between her thin lips, “because my plan to allow millions of mad people to roam and pillage freely in Europe has foiled his plot to let millions of mad people free to roam and pillage in Europe. He will soon to heel be coming…”

Suddenly, mad knave Werewolf Snorkel burst through the swing doors, the wheels of his personal chariot a blur, his face white and his eyes popping like two luminous gobstoppers.

“NOW SEE VOT YOU HAFF DONE!” he exploded, his spittle latching onto another sausage as it disappeared into the Royal gob, “LOOK! SEE! GOTTERDAMMERUNG IN BERLIN…SO MANY JUGENDBLUMEN DEAD UND FOR NUZZINK!”

He threw a newspaper at the Queen, who opened it to see the carnage on the front page.

“HOW DARE ZEY!” she screamed.

“Yes!” said Shoebubble, “How dare these filthy, greasy Untermenschen come to our capital and kill our citizens….I told you we should haff built a Trumpwall round Greece and kept zem zair, because then…”

“Not ze terrorists you stupid snoop-poop!” shouted the Queen of Farts, “Zeess fuckink journalists! How dare zey print the truth in ziss manner, ve must close the…”

“I still don’t understand,” said Theresa, “what an Untermensch is. Is it something to do with Louise Mensch?”

“I thought you said you were going,” said Hollybund and O’Drama in unison.

“Yes,” she replied, with a sad frown, “but I think you two will be going before I do”.

And then Theresa Maypole woke up. It had all been a dream. She dressed quickly in her lead underwear, steel corset, diamond-studded top and saddle-leather trousers before going downstairs to her usual Number Ten Breakfast of soft-boiled Waspi eggs.

Sitting down with a contented sigh, Tall Theresa opened her favourite newspaper and looked at the front page.


PS You read it here first