Wake up in Britainland
Turn on GB news for Breakfast rage against the refugees with Katie Hopkins. Turn my kettle to 189 Fahrenheit and empty 4oz of coffee into my 3-hands width chuckle-brothers mug. It will be a good day in the mines.
Turn on GB news for Breakfast rage against the refugees with Katie Hopkins. Turn my kettle to 189 Fahrenheit and empty 4oz of coffee into my 3-hands width chuckle-brothers mug. It will be a good day in the mines.
Its 4 cubits past eleventy, and mandatory tea and national anthem break. We salute statue of Moggmentum and pay pride tax. Lunch of carrot and a crown pint. In afternoon we get ready for book inspection, no forrin names. Ride daily bus home.
Radio tuned to Priti Patel reading list of dissident children as red-faced men spittle in displaced rage from their failed marriages. Dinner is wetherspoons fine british slurry. 8pm curfew apart from drinkers, got to level up. Rishi sunak patrols westminster to check.
Bed time. I fall asleep to the soothing tones of Dan Wootton brushing his teeth whilst singing old oasis songs. The moon is sponsored by treacle. Fall asleep under my bojo quilt. I hear neighbours dying of dysentery. Another freedom.
In corner blue passport watches knowingly. I miss my wife, but god bless the queen. Tomorrow is international "pro-life" day where Mogg whips pregnant women from a horse. Michael Gove is under my bed. I accidently think of france, and my fate is sealed.
Wake in offshore asylum prison.
Hundreds of screens play clip of Patel smirking. I am forced to make tracksuit bottoms. This is life. The sun raises 47 acres, and the ghost of Thatcher watches in glee.
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