By Dick Mellor
I wrote in 2013 about how much I want to wipe Britain's shitty arse of the dangling shit glob that was the EU, hanging out of our hairy arsehole, refusing to squeeze out and go down the shitter of history where it belongs.
I also campaigned vigorously during last year's glorious referendum, like a man a quarter of my age, full of vim and vinegar and proud British gametes, wanting to sow my EU-leaving seed into as many people as possible (figuratively speaking of course, I'm a happily married man and accomplished husband, as Mrs Mellor will testify to under oath, and has done on several occasions), making sure once and for all that we leave that stinking cesspool of corruption, eurocrats and foreigners behind us and get back to being the most powerful country in the world where we belong, looking down onto everybody else, spitting into their mouths when they are thirsty, pissing on them when they need a shower, chucking them leftovers when they need sustenance.
So when our supreme leader, our Aphrodite, our grey goddess Theresa May tells those limp-dicked, bent-titted, spunk-for-brains remoaning bastards that "Brexit means Brexit" I stand behind her, snooker ball-in-a-sock in hand, ready to crack some skulls and shit down some throats. End of.
