ROYSTON BLAKE ON BREXIT

I been doing some thinkin' on this Brexit wossname. I hears the Prime Minister went over Froggy Land and gave em what for about how the true Brits voted, and they was mean to him and roughed him up and that, telling him he can take his Brexit and shove it up his fuckin' Shexit. We got a contract with em and we better carry on coughing up, they says, else they'm sending over the Euro top boys to jemmy it out of us. And we're talking vikings, nazis, wop footy hooligans, Ivan Drago and a bunch of vampires and zombies. Well, much as I'm up for a rumble (and if you been harkin' me you knows I can handle vampires and zombies and werewolfs and the like), I got a better plan. See, I been havin' a good old gander at a map. Of the world, like, not just the normal one of the Mangel area including Tuber, East Bloater and the Deblin Hills. And I made a bit of a discovery that changes the whole fuckin' game. A tyre-changer, I hear they calls it.

Britain ain't even in Europe.

See, there's this big river thing flowing between the arse end of Britain and the tit end of Europe. Says here it's sponsored by the English Channel, although I spent a good five minutes flicking and I can't for the life of us find that one on my telly. But what it means, right, is that we don't have to do all this begging shite. Prime Minister Farage or whatever don't have to go cap in arse and apologise and ask em to be nice to us even though we reckons em all cunts. No, all we gotta do is push ourselves out a bit.

I mean, fuckin' literal like.

Get a massive pole, ram it into the side of Paris or whatever and heave-ho, off to the deep water Britain goes. That's the beauty of being an island, see? And if anyone says we ain't got no poles long enough - have a look down the back of the hairy factory. There's some fucking massive ones there even if they'm rusted to fuck. Stingers growing all over em too so wear some gloves.

And why stop there? See, if we makes a couple of massive oars and all we can row ourselves all the way to America. Fuckin' imagine that - Britain becoming one of the United States, along with Texas and, erm... Hey, we could run up them Rocky steps and everything. We could track down Paulie and give him a good shoeing for the way he treated that watch Rocky gave him! I'm talkin' America, where you don't have to wear helmets on motorbikes... where the coppers have all got proper caps and not fuckin' tits on their swedes... where you can gun fuckers down and not spend eight years in Mangel jail for it, like Jason Roper from the dole centre when he shot that burglar in the arse with that shotgun he nicked from that farm out by Barkettle... where...

Hang on, can you get Embassy Regals in America? And what about kebabs?

Fuck it - I ain't riskin' it.

Your mate,

Blakey