MAKING ENGLAND GOOD AGAIN (MEGA)

Returning Post-Brexit Britain to Her Former Glory

Doubling down and sending us back to the Dark Ages, as nature intended

“Oh shit, the British are coming!”

That was a common cry from pretty much every human on the planet at one point. We ruled the sea and we ruled the world. We were a right bunch of bastards.

But since 2016 and Brexit, foreigners think of Britain and at best they feel pity. Maybe they even laugh a little. They still say “oh shit, the British are coming,” but now with disdain rather than fear, rolling their eyes and making excuses why they can’t hang out tonight.

A hundred years ago it was said “the sun never sets on the British Empire,” but now it has and we’re in the Dark Ages. So what next?

Finding our future in our past

In it’s natural state, this country is a bunch of wild, feral tribesmen with no interest in one another. The Scottish hate the English. The Northern Irish hate the English. The Welsh… well, they probably don’t mind us. The point is, everyone identifies with their own flag, not the ol’ Union Jack.

Back in the good old days things were far more straight forward. Well before the British Empire, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and even before England, there were the Anglo-Saxons and the Heptarchy.

The Seven Kingdoms, shown below in all her glory:

It existed between the 5th and 10th century: a time unkindly referred to as the Dark Ages of Europe. But honestly, compared to this shitshow we’re living through at the minute, maybe a re-assessment is required.

A return of the Heptarchy could be our New Renaissance.

The Anglo-Saxons jumped over the English Channel and took the place of the departing Romans. There was an opportunity there, just as there is now. They each wanted a bit of land for themselves, so the country naturally split. Scotland, Wales and Ireland were doing their own thing, but on the small little plot of land known today as England, the Seven Kingdoms squeezed up to one another.

They were East Anglia, Mercia, Northumbria, Wessex, Essex, Kent, and Sussex.

They didn’t get along, but that was fine. That was natural.

If the East Anglians wanted a bit more land, for example, they’d gather a few hundred farmers with clubs and send them swinging over to Northumbria, who would probably already be on their way to Mercia doing the same. Everyone would meet in the middle in a big field and they’d have a lovely afternoon beating each other’s heads in. Then the survivors would be back in time for supper.

This kind of general bastardry and refusal to co-exist is deeply engrained in British DNA. It’s obviously why we voted the leave the EU, but it’s also why we tried to take over the world once, and why we spent so much time sailing over to other lands and beating the native’s heads in for no good reason.

We wanted to beat everyone’s heads in. It was who we were.

A Cnut by any other name

Naturally, dividing the country back in to the Heptarchy would just create an opportunity for another Cnut (yes I spelled that name right) to show up to patch it all together again. It would be too big of an opportunity, and it’s the last thing we need.

It’ll probably be the Americans, showing up to “liberate” our population in the name of democracy (and pinch Scotland’s oil while they were in the neighbourhood), and that might not be so bad anyway (more on that later).

But what if some opportunistic Cnut-like figure tries to reform the divided nation, as modern leaders are wont to do?

*As a little aside, after Cnut was crowned English king in 1016, he also became the king of Denmark, Norway, and some Sweden, and formed a short-lived North Sea Empire.

Imagine that today: the English, the Danes and the Norwegians pillaging and raiding Europe together. Macron and Merkel wouldn’t stand a chance.

If this is to be our future, as our DNA suggests it must, then we have to be prepared for another Cnut to come sailing over with visions of Empire and ruin our Seven Kingdoms.

But, the Cnut we really have to be prepared for is someone already native to these shores. And there is no bigger Cnut than Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson.

Imagining how it will play all out

Once Parliament is permanently dissolved, and Boris loses his job as PM, he’ll naturally see this as an excellent opportunity to progress his career. No doubt he still has plenty of fans out there, who despite how dangerously incompetent he proves himself to be, like him because “he’s a laugh.”

They’ll open the gates of London, allowing him to gallop in and take his seat on the newly established throne. We should prepare ourselves for that now.

“It’ll be just like when he was Mayor of London,” they’ll probably say, trying to reassure themselves that he wasn’t that bad, trying to ignore the gallows he’s assembling on Trafalgar Square.

Back in his days as Mayor, Boris would peddle around on his bike and clobber children in the name of taking part in the community, and he was widely respected for it.

But as King, dropping his English name of Boris Johnson and embracing his new persona of Alexander de Pfeffel, he would ride around on a stallion clobbering anyone who didn’t immediately drop to their knees to pay tribute.

Finally dropping the dithering-English-toff act, he’d prove himself to be cruel and ruthless: de Pfeffel the Terrible they’d call him.

True to form, he’d forget all about the north, considering himself King of All-England without even glancing at a map. But when his chief advisor (probably Michael Gove), slithers in and taps him on the shoulder, pointing out there’s another 46 million people he forgot about, de Pfeffel would gather his forces and prepare to steam roll us northern savages.

But he would be outdone. The former Tories would get terrible nosebleeds a few miles north of Luton and would be forced to retreat back to the safety of London, barricading themselves in from the chill of the north forever.

And with that, the rest of the Heptarchy will be safe and free to live our dull little English lives alone, as God intended.

I know what you’re thinking: why would we want de Pfeffel to be ruling anywhere? Why not send his ass back to the States where he came from, and be done with him?

Well this isn’t what I want, just what I predict. And let’s not get greedy here. King of London is much better than Prime Minister of the entire UK, isn’t it? It’s basic damage limitation.

Meanwhile, the rest of the former UK would be free from this unhappy marriage once and for all, and never look back. In Scotland, Nicola Sturgeon would probably waste no time invading Northumbria, clad in war paint, bearing their asses — and that’s fine, my surname is Gibson so I’d be able to assimilate quite easily. In fact, I’m working on the ass in preparation.

Wales probably won’t even realise anything has changed. They’re like Narnia over there, only with sheep rather than fawns.

And Northern Ireland… well, that’s a complex topic, so I’ll not do anymore than point out the Northern Irish President and his big ol’ dog. They’ll do fine.

If that doesn’t work I have another idea

The major concern during the Brexit referendum campaign was the immigration problem. What better way to fix that than making our country so unappealing to foreigners, that no one would ever want to come here? Nigel Farage could finally rest easy.

So for fellow Brits reading this, until it happens start getting prepared: fortify your borders and raise your pitchforks the next time you see someone “not from these parts” trundling through.

(I’m not inciting violence, mind you. Don’t stab anyone with said pitchfork you lunatic, just grab them so they can see it was made locally and that it’s better than their pitchforks. Their pitchforks are shit and they deserve to know about it.)

Otherwise, if you’re American and you’re reading this, and if this plan of mine doesn’t work, then I have a plan B just for you: we can become the 51st American state.

I know that contradicts everything I’ve said in this article about us being a naturally divided people, but I can’t help but think if we have to cosy up with anyone, we’d feel much happier snuggled up with you lot than we ever did with Europe.

We can either be an outlier like Hawaii, only with crap weather and shitter beaches, or we can helicopter England over there and slam it against your East Coast. I’d prefer the latter.

Think about it: you could take a day trip in the car from London to New York, and because Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson was American born, he could technically be your president one day. Imagine that? Go on. IMAGINE IT. You’ll love him. Please, he’s all yours.

Oh, it won’t be so bad. He’s pretty useless really. I still prefer my Heptarchy idea, but I’d make do with that as an alternative.

I’ll move to Seattle so I can complain about the rain. Really, that place was made for the English.

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