Wednesday, 20 December 2017

The Divorce of Lord and Lady Brexit

The Divorce of Lord and Lady Brexit

For the umpteenth time, Normah Brexit found her toothpaste had been pushed to the bottom of the tube.

Oh Fark it,’ she complained, in her dulcet yet strident public school / Oxbridge / L.S.E. cultivated tones.
Brexit satire

Normah methodically teased the contents back up the tube towards the EXIT, and folded the vacant end of the tube over so that HE (HE being Lord Norman Brexit, her husband) couldn’t squeeze it all the wrong way again.

It wasn’t malice on his part. Being 7th generation filthy rich, he thought that things like tubes of toothpaste appeared for his use and were probably renewed daily, overnight, by something.

His mind was so elsewhere that he didn’t literally waste his time cogitating the word ‘something’, let alone contemplating what the nature of the something might be – destiny, his just desserts, a slave, Wi-Fi operated invisible domestic help, illegal imminents (a Freudian slip on his part) ...

Anyway, Lord and Lady Brexit condescended to speak to each other.

Theirs was really a Marriage of Inconvenience, thought Lord Brexit, what with HER being only 4th generation filthy rich. Still, it could be worse. According to the Daily Excess, his chosen rag, which Jives fetched from the village shop, assuring the shopkeeper that it was for his own use (Jives’) not for his Lordship, some of the commoners had a Marriage of Public Convenience, which apparently involved pre-marital gymnastics in odious, odorous public buildings amorously scented with Eau de Disinfectant.
What was the world coming to?

If Lord and Lady Brexit had been meaningfully educated, rational, sane or awake, or, better still, any combination of these 4 beneficent qualities, they might have considered the empathic approach to problem solving:
Talk to each other (and listen) to find a mutually satisfactory compromise;

or the pragmatic (and delightfully simple) approach:
Keep two tubes of toothpaste in the baaaathroom (the Brexit pronunciation): one red, one blue. i.e. one each.

What they did do was contemplate their predicament, thus:
There is one fly in our ointment. Q. To divorce or not?

So they ordered Jives to construct (their word) a large quantity of slips of paper suitable for a ballot.

The instructions on the ballot paper were simple: tick DIVORCE or NOT DIVORCE, one box only.

These slips of expensive watermarked paper were taken to the village pub on a Saturday night.

Lady Normah Brexit prepared the pre-vote speech / instructions on account of her pricey pseudo-education.

Lord Norman Brexit delivered the oratory on account of his inability to notice several commoners making rude gestures in his direction and others imitating his voice, but he was clearly able to outperform anyone in volume.

The congregated boozers in the Public Bar and the Lounge Bar gazed at their slips of paper and pondered.

They didn’t read any related ‘relationship’ books, use their smart phones to search, or their brains, or their hearts, but several regulars had so few brain cells left that self reflection or doubt never impeded their mouths, so they pontificated mightily, and the rest were entertained.

The counting was a surprise:

Everyone in the Public Bar had voted DIVORCE since Ned the Neanderthal was by far the most forceful neuron-free spokesperson in the room.

Everyone in the Lounge bar voted DON’T DIVORCE, retired school teacher Abi Seedy Eeeah proving able to recite 17,000 harmonious New Age tweets about #UniversalHarmony from memory.

That’s settle then,” chorused the temporarily betrothed Lord and Lady Brexit in a rare moment of albeit vocal harmony, as they sat in one of their Mercedes coup├ęs in the pub car park.
They reminisced for a moment. Then experienced another knee trembling moment of emulating a two person choir:

If we’ve made a mistake, we can blame the voters!”

This exchange led to glances and a long forgotten feeling of fondness, which, given the recent poll and imminent solicitors bills, was a bloody nuisance. They shook off the feeling, and the wheels of the inevitable creaked agonisingly, oiled as they were with the rust of Millennia of Darkness.


  1. A Douchebag requires no pastes for use about the body as we are born immaculate..and stay so. Inbreeding assures that we stay thus. Quite.

  2. Everlasting teeth, eh, your Lordsheep. I recall your chompers being nearly an exact match of those in your favourite horse.

  3. Another fine tale by Mr. Pillock. I have followed his muse since the 1940' was the 50's I believe when he told of Churchill and the deadly rhyme...

  4. Where does the time go!? It's a year since this story appeared!


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