Jacob Rees-Mogg – By the Nanny Who Knows Him

Jacob Rees-Mogg is without doubt the hippest man on the planet right now. Not only has he recently changed his name to Bae-Club Rees-Vlog, but next week he’s at the MOBOs performing his brand new hip-hop single ‘F*** YOU I WON’T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!’ (his song about the London Fire Brigade) I can just see him on stage now, twirling his sceptre, cocking his top-hat and drawling something devastatingly polite into the microphone: ‘You know, one is rather fond of severely inconveniencing them bitches, if you’ll permit me a momentary lapse in grammar, all you people out there who fiercely indulge in intercourse with the women who gave birth to you.’

But it wasn’t always thus. Believe it or not, Jacob used to be considered a little starchy.

I know, right?

And I know better than most. I was his nanny. I adored that be-spectacled little ubermensch so much that I decided to stay on in his service even from beyond the grave. I’m his ghost nanny, you see. The perfect nanny for the Rees-Mogg family, as it turns out, because they don’t have to pay me anything (Nanny McNo-Phee).

Jacob’s great-grandfather, Hogg-Lees Rees-Mogg

They’re a lovely bunch, the Moggies, despite the fact that it was Jacob’s great-grandfather who killed me. He’d been drinking French furniture polish and sniffing gunpowder all day, and said he could smell ‘the whiff of the pickaninny about me’ before beating me to death with a copper serving spoon. It was a rare lapse in etiquette for a man who usually comported himself with impeccable manners: he of all people should have known that it’s a grapefruit spoon for murdering servants.

Still, my brutal murder was at least in-keeping with Rees-Mogg family tradition. Jacob’s great-great grandfather blew my mother’s face off with a blunderbuss because she ‘looked at him a bit Chinese’ as she was making him a swan  sandwich. What a character! I just feel disgusted that I never had any kids of my own so that Jacob could one day employ them in some menial position before smashing them to death with a signed copy of the King James Bible.

I’ll never forget when little Jakey was born. His mum and dad were so over-joyed they could barely contain their lips from breaking into a tight, perfectly straight hyphen. Little Jakey slipped out of his mother’s clam-pit without any fuss at all, as nonchalant as a complete bastard of a politician lounging insouciantly on the front benches of the houses of parliament during a crucial debate. I’ve never seen a child look so absolutely, completely, utterly and adorably full of withering indignation and arrogant rage. A wee smasher! The man who would one day write the political best-seller “It’s HIS-Tory, not THEY/THEM-Socialists” was already there in that tiny, pale, baleful little creature.

Not fifteen seconds later, he spoke his first words; an Oscar Wilde quote: ‘All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.’ Not moments later, his grand-father beat him half to death with a hickory stick for not having said it in ancient Hebrew.

Jakey was a delight growing up, he really was. It took him a long, long time to wean himself off breast-milk. Even now he still enjoys the odd suckle on my ghostly titties. And sometimes I like to soothe him by turning invisible and gobbling him off in the cabinet room. But that’s just what a good nanny does, by golly.

When Jakey was about six he used to burn ants with a magnifying glass, except instead of ants it was working class people, and instead of a magnifying glass it was a shotgun. Sometimes he’d give them a sporting chance and chase them across his private minefield, promising to let them live if they could guide themselves safely to the other side with the instructions he’d painted on the ground in Aramaic.

He was nice like that, you see. Always trying to better people. He couldn’t help himself. That’s why he became a conservative, of course. So that he could help people more fortunate than himself, so one day they’d help him become as fortunate as them. And then he could just help himself to, you know, whatever the fuck he liked.

I remember his first proper big boy’s bed was made from the pelts of endangered monkeys. Well, not strictly accurate. It was the entire monkeys it was made of, all of them still alive, bound together like a raft. He took great care to angle the monkey anuses away from his face, but if a monkey did happen to shit on him as he slept, he’d just wake up and throw it to the crocodiles. Sometimes the monkeys would get lucky, and the crocodiles wouldn’t eat them, because they were already full from eating too many Malaysian servants that day. Well, I say ‘get lucky’. If a monkey survived the croc pond little Jakey would chase it round the garden and smash its brains in with an ivory cane, before masturbating over its tiny little corpse. Even to this day I can’t take him to the zoo without drugging him first.

Most of the time, though, Jakey would put his erections to good use. Once a week he would get a servant to jerk him off with an antique oven-cosy into a tiny crepe pan, which he’d then order his pastry chef to make into a man-muck omelette for his ground-maintenance staff, reasoning that a little of his DNA in their nutritious snack might make them a bit smarter by-proxy, the self-abusing, crotch-sniffing bumpkins that they were.

I remember as he got older and became a more proficient wanker he started shouting out in Latin at the point of climax. Once he accidentally gibbered out an ancient gypsy curse which he unknowingly placed upon his pet horse, Titus Andronicus. It was a literal gypsy curse in that it turned his horse into an actual gypsy. It still looked like a horse, but you could just tell. Poor Jakey was distraught at having to put it down. Even still he was smart enough to use a harpoon gun so there wasn’t any risk of being contaminated by its filthy gypsy blood.

Well, Jacob is all grown up now, but if you go into his old room it’s exactly as he left it from his wild teenage years: posters of Jesus on the wall; the Turkish hookah filled with orphan’s tears; his extensive book collection, including Enoch Powell’s best-seller ‘Europe Can Suck My Bendy Banana’; his blow-up Maggie Thatcher doll, with stolen-milk stains around the anus; his flared knickerbockers; and his seed-encrusted copies of ‘Murdered Monkey Monthly’.

And, do you know, he’s never stopped making me proud. Just this week he said something that made me tingle with joy. ‘Nanny,’ he said, ‘If you weren’t already dead, I’d jolly well kill you with my priceless antique letter-opener that once belonged to Adolph Hitler.’

The big-hearted, sentimental fool that he is!

The Race for PM: Brexy’s Midnight Runners

There’s an episode of The Simpsons where Homer holds such a deep grudge against Mo that his senses are hijacked to the point where everything he sees, everything he says and everything he hears is ‘Mo’.

That’s how most of us have come to feel about Brexit.

Brexit is everywhere. Brexit will always be with us, and it’s always been here. Brexit is infinite and eternal. It’s in our DNA. It’s in the Domesday book. It’s in the Bible. It’s there standing next to Jack Nicholson in the photograph at the end of The Shining. It’s in our brains. It’s on our lips. It’s all over social media.

It’s been around for so long that I’m actually starting to form sexual neuroses around it. I heard some European lady on radio 4 recently trying to sum it all up, and found myself getting turned on: ‘Wha kine of Brexeet you wan, baybee?’ she asked me, and me alone. ‘You wan a soff Brexeet, baybee? Or har’ Brexeet?’

By this point, of course, I was fervently masturbating as I shouted indescribable filth out of the window, catching some funny looks from the rest of the people in the traffic jam: “Yeah, that’s it, restrict my movement, baby, oh yeah, yeah, I’ve been a bad voter, I’ve been a bad, bad, MISINFORMED voter, take away my rights, yeah, make me feel worthless, defund me, DEFUND ME, give me your sexy Brexit, HARD, come on, HARD, don’t stop, don’t STOP… BREXIT THE EVER-LOVING SHIT OUT OF ME, YOU DIRTY WEE COW!”

Brexit’s on the radio, it’s on the TV: every channel, no matter the programme.

‘Will sparrows need a visa after Brexit?’

‘Tell me, you’re a headteacher: after Brexit, will maths still exist?’

‘Reverend, if Jesus were here today, would he… be fucking sick of hearing about Brexit too?’

I swear David Attenborough’s even released a Netflix special called: Life After Brexit.

There’s… nothing to eat here, so the poor… have started… to eat the rich. The very rich have… already left, migrated to Monaco, and Switzerland, leaving… just the middle classes. A group of young council estate lads have seen the crest of Phillip from the tennis club’s Pringle jumper, and they head off in pursuit, eventually catching him round the back of Lidl and tearing him apart like a chicken. It’s probably the first time that anyone in this group has ever eaten anything fresh… or free-range. Clive from the squash club will soon be round the corner in his… Nissan Navara, but by then… it’ll be too late for Phillip. This… is what Brexit Means Brexit… really means.

We reached the point of critical Brexit fatigue a long time ago, but we might very well find ourselves looking back on these days with great fondness once we’re loping round a smog-clouded Hell-scape chewing the heads off rats, and aiding in the summary executions of anyone we suspect can speak French even to primary school level; once our kids are standing up in school assembly and making their daily pledge to President Katie Hopkins to hate foreigners in all their hideous forms, as their teachers watch on with machine guns.

Poor Theresa May. It seems like only last week she was begrudgingly commenting on inner-city knife crime, with a look on her face that seemed to say “What’s this got to do with fucking Brexit? Why am I being asked to comment on something that ISN’T Brexit? Ask a local councillor or Piers Morgan about this inconsequential nincompoopery: I’m a god damned board-certified Brexitologist!”

Ironically, one of the main reasons she had to stand down this week – besides finally realising how tragic and ineffectual she was as a leader – was due to the sheer number of times she’d been stabbed in the back by the squad of Machiavellian hypocrites lurking behind her in the shady, murky undergrowth of the party.

There’s now a gaping hole in the Tory leadership, which admittedly isn’t anything new. At least ten Tories have expressed interest in taking over as PM – Brexy’s Midnight Runners, as I like to call them – and there isn’t one among them that doesn’t send a shiver of terror or wave disgust down the spine. They range from the ridiculous to the sublime; from the ‘Eewwww!’ to the ‘who?’, and a multitude of possibly illegal swear words in between. I’m afraid that only the least favourite crisps are left at the bottom of the multi-pack, and all of them are Evil Flavour.

Welcome to the next phase of the Brexpocalypse. It’s going to get worse before it gets… well, an awful lot worse. The UK, already isolated from its friends by a coterie of abusive, power-hungry psychopaths, is now about to be gang-raped. And all we can do is stand by and watch. On the BBC, as it happens. Good old BBC.

Brexy’s Midnight Runners

One of the few Tory big-hitters not to come out swinging is Jacob Rees-Mogg, which is a shame, because that might have been very funny. It’s easy to see why they left the Dark Lord on the bench. Rees-Mogg’s voice is suggestive of a Persian cat who just woke up after a nice long sleep by the fire, but an evil Persian cat – one who kills baby mice. He’s a haunted ventriloquist’s dummy who only speaks Latin; he’s a demonic pinky-finger; he’s Hitler’s butler; he’s a harvester of children’s tears who likes to relax by downing a refreshing pint of homeless man’s blood. But, strangely, he’s not considered quite depraved enough to throw his top-hat into the ring.

So who have we got? There’s Michael Gove, the man who finally answers the question: ‘But what if Rick Moranis was an oily right-wing bastard?’ (I could just as easily have used ‘Pob’ instead of ‘Rick Moranis’. Or a hollowed-out wank potato with glasses.) It’s not widely known, but Gove was the world’s first successful recipient of a full Scottishectomy. All vestiges of Scottishness were removed from his mind and body in 2005 – which unfortunately has raised his life expectancy by 20 years.

There’s Boris Johnson, naturally. He’s the favourite. Imagine if the Honey Monster had sex with both the Dulux dog and a naughty school-boy character from the Beano: Boris would probably masturbate to that, right? Still, he’d make a good prime minister because his buffoonery was mildly amusing on Have I Got News For You a few years ago, eh? Once he’s in the top seat maybe we can appoint Andy Parsons as the Home Secretary and Gina Yashere as the Business Secretary? Yeah? YEAH!!?! (suddenly remembers we live in a world where Donald Trump is president in the US and a stand-up comedian was elected as the president of Ukraine)

Ah, and there’s Jeremy Hunt. People have milked so much comedy from Jeremy Hunt’s wonderfully rhymeable name over the years that there’s nothing original left to say, so I can probably just dispense with the witty wordplay and come right out and say what an absolute c**t he is. What an absolute c**t he is.

Barring her views on fox-hunting and Brexit, Andrea Leadsom is actually quite progressive for a Tory, which is a bit like singling BTK out for praise in a group of serial killers because he’s quite good at pottery.

Then there’s Sajid Javid, a brutal little man who looks like the aborted attempt of a small child to draw The Rock’s face onto an egg. He’s Doctor Evil, but thrice as evil, and about as popular in Scotland right now as the idea of Margaret Thatcher and Jimmy Hill being brought back from the dead so they can be installed in Edinburgh Castle to rule as King and Queen. Good luck, you little fucker.

Rory Stewart has the resigned, vaguely apologetic gaze of an archbishop who’s just been snapped by the paparazzi coming out of a brothel. For the eighth time. He looks like the end result of someone getting a jigsaw of Steve Buscemi’s face mixed up with a jigsaw of Wilhem Dafoe’s face.

There’s Dominic Raab, a grinning thumb with the face of Buzz Lightyear and the soul of Alan B’stard. There’s Matt Hancock and Kit Malthouse, who aren’t even real people, but two detectives from a cop show set in 1970s New York. And there’s James Cleverley, Esther McVey, Mark Har…oh, fuck this, I’m falling asleep (but also still oddly terrified).

To quote the tagline for Alien vs Predator: Whoever wins, we lose.

Even Ken Clarke’s had enough

The Tories shouldn’t be allowed to install a new prime minister without a general election, and the general public should never have been allowed to weigh in on such a complex, multi-layered issue as membership of the European Union, at least not without years of preparation, education and honest campaigning.

This is what the average man and woman on the street make of Brexit:

“What is this Brexit thing?”

“It’s somethin’ to do with pomegranates or something, too many pomegranates coming in to the country.”

“Pomegranates?”

“Aye, and bananas too. They’re too bendy or they’re no bendy enough or somethin. Oh, and they’re worried about some door-stop in Ireland.”

“A door-stop?”

“Aye, they want to put one in, so Ireland doesn’t close or something.”

“That’s a bloody big door-stop.”

“Aye, but it’ll keep the foreigners out. SOMETHING SOMETHING FOREIGNERS! GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!”

They’re the lucky ones. Imagine living in blissful ignorance of this almighty cluster-fuck. Mind you, half the people brokering it don’t know what the fuck it’s all about either. It’s like when you say a word or phrase so many times that it starts to lose all meaning. ‘Brexit, Brexit, Brexit, Brexit. Workers rights, workers rights, workers right, workers rights, workers rights.’ You see? Totally meaningless.

So, in summary: we’re all fucked.

Except for us lucky blighters up here in Scotland, who might yet manage to avoid Brexit with the aid of a swift and timely Ukexit. That’s if Donald Trump doesn’t declare war on us and nuke us out of existence for not letting him turn the highlands into a giant golf course or something.

If we have to endure a No Deal Brexit with Boris Johnson at the helm, a nuking might start to seem like a small mercy.

Remembrance of Brexit Days Past

I think Brexit Day always seems a lot more magical when you’re a child. You know, it’s a real family occasion: the celebrations, the procession, the executions, all of that.

I remember one of the early ones, I must have been seven, eight. Can’t remember precisely, but it was the first Brexit Day my parents thought I was old enough to take part in the ‘After Dinner Death Match’. The prize that year was the last chocolate in the box, well, the only chocolate in the box. And it wasn’t a box, it was a piece of toilet paper. And it wasn’t a chocolate, it was some rat shit. But anyway, it was my turn to fight that year, and I drew my gran’s name out of the hat. Sounds like an easy win, but it wasn’t. She was tough as old boots, my gran. As a fighter and as a meal. Food was scarce, you see, so whoever lost got eaten.

Mum made gran into a curry, or maybe it was a Balti – it was definitely something hot and spicy – to mask the taste of that leathery old skin of hers. Dad wasn’t happy. ‘A curry?’ he said. ‘A bloody curry? What’s wrong with good old British faggots, or a fry up? You’ll get us marched off by the Lizzie Lynch Mob yet, Cynthia!’

Even with all the spices, gran tasted worse than my cousin Bill, and that’s saying something, because Bill was a big old fat guy with hundreds of moles and welts and psoriasis and smegma and everything. Still, waste not, want not, and each to their own. I think smegma is vile, but my mum always said it was an acquired taste, like blue cheese – whatever that is.

My gran on the campaign trail for UKIP, in happier times

Gran’s last words to me as she bled out under the dining room table were, ‘I hope you choke on my tough old tits, you weak little shit-bag.’ For some reason those words have always stuck with me… There was a funny little moment too, just as she slipped away, when my Dad shouted back at her, ‘Brexit MEANS Brexit, Brenda,’ and we all laughed. Even gran cracked a smile. Gran was like that, though, always up for the banter.

I remember being very sad that day. Very, very sad. Not because of gran, you see. My dad was right, Brexit DOES mean Brexit, that’s just the way it is. No, because my pet – and best pal – Russell, had died the day before. Oh, I was devastated. Absolutely devastated. You look at any picture from my childhood, and it’s me and Russell. I’d take him walks, we’d sleep in the same bed, we’d stay up late and watch movies together. Mum tried to console me as best she could on Brexit Day morning, because she could see how upset I was. She said: ‘We’ll get you another carrier bag, son, maybe a John Lewis one this time,’ and I just lost it, because Russell wasn’t just any old carrier bag. He was an M&S carrier bag.

Mum and dad told me about the times just before I was born, before Brexit, when people kept cats and dogs and things like that as pets; my parents had a pet, too. A little Bichon Frize called Steven. But when the economy crashed that first time, and money didn’t exist anymore, nobody could buy food, so they rounded up everybody’s pets and ate them. It went into law, actually. There were big barbecues and cook-outs in the street. Dad said it really brought communities together and it was like the Royal Jubilee, only with more of an emphasis on dog eating. My parents said it was hard to eat Steven, but only because he was so dry. ‘A little bowl of smegma,’ mum said, ‘That’s the secret.’

Dad loved flame-grilled spaniels best, but mum always had dangerously exotic tastes, so she preferred things like spicy cat-arse kebabs. One time a next-door neighbour of theirs brought some garden snails to a cook-out, and they shot him, because snails were too French, you see. He should’ve known better. The rules were clear. You weren’t even allowed to call small things ‘wee’ anymore, just in case anyone thought you were  a French agent.

A few Brexit Days after that – I can’t remember the year exactly, but it was around about the time they moved the capital city to Bolton, and dissolved Wales… not the assembly or anything, they just dissolved the whole country – I lost an uncle. What was his name? Ah, Uncle Simon, that’s right. It was good riddance anyway.  He’d had a bit too much to drink, and I remember him sitting there, wearing his Union Jack paper-hat , and he just shook his head with a little smile and said, ‘Ah, Brexit. What was that all about, eh?’ My mum snuck off to the kitchen to use the phone. I could see my Dad was trying hard not to lose his temper.  Ten minutes later these six big guys, all dressed like the Queen – with matching handbags and everything – marched in and carted him off. Uncle Simon was terrified, you know, he was screaming and everything. ‘I’m a loyal subject! I’m a loyal subject! No! No!!! Listen to me, just listen: send ‘em back; too bloody cold for ‘em; they tried to straighten our bananas. See??? I’m one of you!! I’M ONE OF YOU! I’M A BREXITEEEEEERRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrr!’

I don’t think I can do justice to the amazing atmosphere at the Brexit Day processions. You know, there would be the big bus with the ‘£350 million’ sticker on it, and it would go past and peep and everyone would wave; there would be people dressed in top-hats and monocles carrying gilded canes around, just like King Rees-Mogg (peace-be-upon-him). There would be a guy dressed as Churchill kicking blacked-up homeless people up and down the street as someone played God Save the Queen on a lute. Sometimes Nigel Farage would drop in and stoat about with a pint of piss, grinning at everyone. Oh, it was wonderful.

One Brexit Day, though – I think it was around about the year that King Rees-Mogg first announced the building of the sea-wall in the ocean between Dover and Calais – they had to evacuate our street because one of the kids in the neighbourhood found an old time capsule someone had buried in 2006, and there were apparently pictures of people smiling and eating food and going to hospital and stuff like that, so they did a controlled explosion of the time capsule. And of the little kid who found it, just to be safe.

The procession always ended with a big bonfire in the village green, where they’d do the ‘Burning of the Obama’ –  he was a French muslim, you know – and they’d round up anyone who looked a bit like Jeremy Corbyn and hurl them in, too. That was how they got my other gran. We warned her to use the Remington.

I really liked the arena combat, where people fought against horses, but my favourite was always the ‘Annual Execution of a Remainer’. There was always so much excitement around it. They’d choose the executioner from one of the local primary schools. They picked Graham McPhail from my class one year, I was so bloody jealous. I think that was the year they finally abolished Scotland and renamed it ‘England the Second.’ Anyway, for weeks afterwards people would run up to Graham in the playground, and ask to touch his strong and stable trigger-finger.

Graham went on to become a member of the Lizzy Lynch Squad, you know, those guys that dress up as the Queen and take people away to be shot for treason. Years later, he was the one who killed my mum. Someone had overheard her saying that she liked ‘smegma pasta’, and of course Italian food is unpatriotic, so off she went. That was that. I didn’t hold a grudge against Graham, I really didn’t. He was just doing his job. Brexit means Brexit, after all.

Anyway. What did you say the half-life of nuclear radiation was? It’s a bit stuffy in this bunker. I’d like to get out for some fresh air, maybe wave a few flags around for old time’s sake. Actually, there’s a thought. I could use my Union Jack to waft away the radiation… What a great idea. That’ll definitely work. It is the most powerful flag in the world, after all. BRITAIN SAVES THE DAY AGAIN! GOD SAVE THE QUEEN! GOD SAVE THE UNITED KINGDOM!

21 Things You Need to Know About Brexit & Europe

  • If you stare into a mirror and say ‘Brexit’ five times Boris Johnson appears behind you and runs you over with a bus emblazoned with his outrageous lies.
  • Nigel Farage has since admitted that his antipathy towards Europe was all just a silly misunderstanding. It was the band ‘Europe’ he didn’t like.
  • Ministers think they’ve cracked the issue with the Irish border. They’re going to try splitting Ireland up and down the way, instead of across the way. Sure there won’t be any problems there.
  • How much Brexit would a Brexiteer Brexit if a Brexiteer could Brexit Brexit? Nobody knows.
  • Brexit will happen at midnight on the 29th of March 2019, unless John Major can defuse the Brexit Countdown Clock in time, which he’ll probably do with one second to spare, and then Edwina will want to pump him again. Also, don’t feed Brexit after midnight, or get it wet. Same applies to Anne Widdecombe.
  • The part of Brexit that Jacob Rees-Mogg is most looking forward to is turning Britain into a massively de-regulated sweat-shop that makes trainers for the Chinese.
  • Brexit’s real name is Brian Exitano.

  • Most people think that the negotiation process is rather dull, but it isn’t. All disputed items on the Brexit list are settled with a bit of a wrestle, and a slimy one at that. For instance, an agreement on common agricultural policies was only reached once Michael Gove and Angela Merkel had wrestled naked in a vat of hot kale for six hours (the agreement was that none of the spectators would ever have, or even think about, sex ever again).
  • Brexit isn’t the end. A leaked Downing Street memo has revealed draft policy papers with titles like ‘What can we Brexit from next?’; ‘Asking for a Friend: How much Brexit is too much Brexit?’ and ‘Brexit in Space???’
  • It’s a common misconception that Brexit was caused by stupidity, ignorance and a hatred of brown people. This isn’t true. Don’t forget black, Irish and Polish people, too
  • Theresa May is tipped to appoint as her new Brexit spokesman the 2003 Iraqi Information Minister Mohammed Saeed al-Sahhaf.
  • Once we Brexit and the NHS is sold off to American investment bankers and insurance companies, resulting in cancer treatments costing patients up to £70,000 a go, Boris Johnson is confident that Britain will then be able to take advantage of this unique opportunity and start producing ground-breaking TV shows like ‘Breaking Bad’.
  • The Queen couldn’t give a fuck about Brexit.
  • David Cameron has now been driven so far underground that the only person capable of finding him is Theresa May the next time she curtsey-splits for one of the Royals.

  • Everything will be more expensive after Brexit, but Boris Johnson is already trying to encourage a bit of optimism through his new campaign slogan: ‘Free rats for every cunt!’
  • The two most likely candidates for the pre- and post- Brexit top spot are Bojo, a man who looks like the Honey Monster after a difficult sixth divorce, and Jacob Rees-Mogg, a man who looks like a Victorian undertaker tasked with burying himself. It’s a little known fact that Jacob Rees-Mogg’s top-hat is made from six-hundred leather-bound begging letters written by suicidal job-seekers, while his monocle is made from the frozen tears of a thousand malnourished urchins.
  • If Brexit becomes a reality, Scotland will almost assuredly declare independence from Westminster, yet remain part of the EU. The Scottish people will then spend their days sitting on the newly rebuilt Hadrians Wall (which will have been erected by a Polish work-crew) eating tapas and croissants, and generally rubbing it in as over the border the price of a loaf of bread rises to three babies and sixty rats.
  • Jacob Rees-Mogg reportedly celebrated Brexit by privatising his birthday party. He invited tenders for bouncy castle hire, opted for the most expensive one at £500,000 a bounce, and hired Saatchi and Saatchi to design his birthday cake at a cost of £12 million. He then declared bankruptcy half an hour before the end of the party. His guests were still able to enjoy a £6m bowl of jelly thanks to the £1bn tax-payer bailout he received in order to successfully complete his birthday party on time.
  • Other names considered for Brexit were: ‘Something something something foreigners’, ‘Fuck the Poor’, ‘One world cup, two world wars and a Brexit, doo dah, doo dah’, and ‘Dave’.
  • Jacob Rees-Mogg has already prepared his speech in the event that he’s the next post-Brexit prime minister. “Hahahahaha. Hahahahahahaha. HAHAHAHAHAHA! AHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHA! AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
  • It’s generally accepted that the European Union was formed as a sneaky way for Germany to win World War II when no-one was looking. The real story, only recently discovered, is rather juicier. In 1953 a little Gibraltan boy watched as his mother was struck and killed by a stray banana thrown by a drunken monkey, the bendiness of which was a direct factor in her death. That Gibraltan boy was none other than Alfonso Europe. As he grew, Europe dedicated himself to amassing wealth, power and prominence. He eventually became a billionaire, and established the EU for the sole purpose of having his vengeance upon bananas, and all who would eat them.

Or it was the Jews. Actually, I think it was the Jews. Had to have been.