Dishevelled, debauched and strongly smelling of cheap cider, the British electorate are bracing themselves for the mother-of-all referendum hangovers. Sheepishly staggering on the international stage, UK voters are going to have to explain how they ended up in bed with Boris Johnson, a copy of Mein Kampf and a lubricated Michael Gove.
During the referendum campaign eyewitness attest to seeing the UK hurling racist insults at a Polish waiter, while dancing on a table dressed as a Morris Man. Defending their actions one voter claimed that their drink had been spiked with a cocktail of paranoia and xenophobia; although he could not explain why he now had a tattoo of bulldog on his arse.
One bleary eyed Brexiter admitted: ‘I remember shouting a lot, punching a border guard and then someone suggested we go to a strip bar. The next thing I know is I’ve vomited on my own shoes, signed up to a Norwegian-style trade agreement and declared war on Luxembourg’.
Another sobering Brit, still looking for his keys and postal vote, said: ‘I think I may have called our ex, America, and inadvertently told Donald Trump I love him. I just don’t remember – but how bad can it be? What? We shot an MP and made Nigel Farage our new leader? F@ck – it must have been one hell of a party’.