The nightmare is real – the monster is out there – it’s going to get us – AAAAAAARGHHHH...
…all to the sound track of a 1950's creature feature movie, obviously.
Paralysed by panic and confusion, I was trapped in a gelatinous quagmire, suffocating on the stench of constipated, putrefied privilege and surrounded by howling, part-formed entities screeching at a pitch to make your ears bleed and your eyeballs implode.
As I struggled to crawl out of the grey sucking slop, the withered, malformed sewer creatures slunk and slithered on every available slime-slicked bank, at home in the stagnant sludge of their natural environment.
Mouldy May grimaced and gurned aboard the barely floating turd of populism. The bloated buffoon, son of John, babbled incessantly enjoying the smell of his own verbal farts and double-dim Davis churned the viscid slime with his jerking uncoordinated movements. A withered creature of the genus Corbynus-ludicrous on the opposite bank – barely visible through a haze of rancid obfuscation – stumbled and stammered, sniffing stupidly at the murky edges of the swamp – occasionally putting one of his three toes in and then becoming inexplicably motionless.
Then the wailing of the other unidentifiable creepers and crawlers of dark spaces, agitated by a long, thin, flaccid part-reptile, part tape-worm, part mangy fur ball – Ree-Smog began to take some form. It was a chant – ‘we like the shit and you are not escaping – stay in the shit – we love the shit – we made the shit - down in the shit is where we likes it – the deeper we sinks the less we is disturbed by the pesky light and the nasty breathable air’ on and on. While in the very centre, the creature itself – Brexshit – a formless but horrifying mass – heaved and rolled, bellowed and belched toxic orange smoke, occasionally dragging down unwary swamp dwellers to unimaginable depths and terrors.
I began to gag – choking on the evil lumpy gloop. My eyes filled with acrid fumes that smelled something like the dead, delusional rotting yearnings of an Empire constructed on the murder and misery of my slave ancestors.
Then it hit me – this was not a nightmare. I could not wake up. This was the Brexshit swamp and there was no escape from the Brexshit creature in this grey fetid lagoon. It was real and it would not go away. And the verdant fields I could see receding in the distance would never ever be for me or mine again.
One remaining bridge, which stretched only as far as March 2019, called Ye Olde Customs Union(e) was in the process of being doused in evil caustic fluids by large, slow slug-like entities that had slithered from under their cold dark rocks for the purpose. The bridge was in danger of crumbling from its own decrepitude as it was already deeply corroded by the sulphurous, acid emanations from the uncontrollable irruptions of mordant xenophobia and the foundation-breaking tremors of jingoism.
I tried to cry but the tears burnt my face as they mixed with the vile caustic vapours from the reeking bog.
Then I sank…
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