Dear of all, Vegemite, Pies, Pockets, Beeps and Cater-Dell, to you and your Brexit exodus

Dear vegemite, I’m terrified. We were both horrified when you started bleaching your face in the mornings, sticking a calico plaster over your tear ducts in the evening and cashing in on the nasty…

Dear of all, Vegemite, Pies, Pockets, Beeps and Cater-Dell, to you and your Brexit exodus

Dear vegemite,

I’m terrified. We were both horrified when you started bleaching your face in the mornings, sticking a calico plaster over your tear ducts in the evening and cashing in on the nasty effects of alcohol in the evening by eating ice-cream for breakfast. Or are you just eating crisps and floating about on a vast diet of Spar crisps? It’s awful. You’re made of cold words and short cuts and you really will make me rot into a compost heap on a damp Sunday morning. For six bloody months, apparently. Please make it stop.

Dear, all,

Your summer hankerings might be a bit melodramatic but they’re heartfelt. We know how difficult it must be for you this year. It’s been quite a tour of duty – an international managerial career, glamour and debauchery, drinks with the boys. And nothing could spoil your summer more than facing up to your constituency in northern Ireland. You love the place. You’ve found out just how much it costs. And even if you’re lucky enough to live on the dole you still have to get out and work. But just to cut through all the guff you’ve been feeding us, you’ve called an extraordinary meeting of the House for 11 September. It’s just one thing worse – it’s a death knell.

Dear, all,

Surely there’s only one way you can deal with all the stuff going on. Pack it all in. One by one. And live peacefully until there’s no more. We’ll be calling all the moths, the mosquitos, the cockroaches and all the flies on their backs too. By our logic, as soon as one is dead, there’ll be nothing left. Will you leave the nation with a paradise? A haven for all the little birds you love so much? Will they find the sea beneath you? Will they fly to the moon? Will they fall asleep to join the giant mosquito on the moon?

Dear, all,

You’d like some kind of distraction. We’re happy to bring it to you. Look closely and you’ll see a pop-up and your baying daughters will roar like pigs like ze baa-led army who got lost in the Entelechy! and you’ll beam with horror at what you’ll discover. A microwave and frying pan. Fact is, it’s already cooking. Stuck in the oven at 27C for an unspecified period of time.

Leave a Comment