Topher Colon – Our non-linear fifth dimensional art house movie director turned political columnist, delivers his view on Brexit.
To begin at the end we have the red tops reporting on future Prime Minister Boris Johnson reportedly overheard saying ‘fuck business’. The Tory leadership was not his to lose but Hunts to win. But Boris won and Hunt lost, so a nice inverted juxtaposition I think you’ll find.
Then in another dimension, somewhere deep in the subconscious of Jeremy Corbin, comes an idea to rally the youth with an appearance at Glastonbury. The applause galvanises the country and Britain is divided no more.
Cut to the untold origins of Nigel Farage being dragged to the headmasters office for distributing Xenophobic propaganda posters in all the dry cleaners around Eton.
Zoom out and it’s 40 years later, Farage is now leader of the Brexit Party. He has just received another stamp on his dry cleaners loyalty card after his 10th visit in as many weeks thanks to the lawless milk-shake throwing protestors.
Sadly the man of Asian descent behind the counter doesn’t speak a lick of English and Farage is unable to utilise his loyalty card. The irony will not be lost on the audience.
All the while Jamie Oliver goes bust, blames Brexit and shits out another book in time for Christmas.
The pound drops to a record low and Sajid Javid’s cockapoo takes a shit on the walk into number 11. Some call this an omen and I’ll properly refer back to this as such if I remember. If I don’t it won’t matter, people will think I’m a genius either way.
(Of course I’m writing this in the past and present tense simultaneously, naturally my self-professed pseudo intellectual audience will have already cottoned-on).
Behind closed doors at number 10, lots of people you’ve never heard of say a lot of big words at each other in a really quick manner. One person says something seemingly prophetic and everyone else gasps at the revelation that you won’t get until you watch for the 20th time.
CUT TO: Michael Caine impersonating Theresa May, in a dreamlike sequence giving some Brexit-exposition that clogs up an already convoluted plot. I wake up, although I might still be dreaming, and find an invoice under my pillow for 50 big ones addressed from Michael for his cameo.