Brexit County Logo

The results were in, and the village of Charity erupted in euphoria at the idea that the United Kingdom were finally able to cut the rope around their neck which the European Union had foisted upon them.

Well, at least 185 of the 385 people in Charity voted to Remain, but to Mayor Beard this was a mere triviality. The majority – slight though it may have been – had voted Brexit, and Brexit it should be.

But the government couldn’t be trusted, and they backpedalled. Theresa May went from the iron lady to the spineless gimp quicker than Beard could organise the Brexit celebrations, and what was worse, even Corbyn looked as though he was edging the Tories out with the popular vote.

A hung parliament led to the threat of slow, drawn out negotiations. Europe weren’t backing down – they had no need too – and Mayor Beard had finally decided it was time to take a stand.

“We need to close the borders!” he bellowed at the town hall meeting, thumping the table unnecessarily. “Out means out, no means no, and that’s the way it’s going to be.”

“All very interesting but we’re hardly an autonomous society,” said Hartley-Smith. Hartley-Smith owned the largest estate in the village, packed a brace of shotguns (all legal) and believed that England went down the hatch as soon as serfdom was repealed. “We can’t close up the borders and stick our fingers in our ears, man!”

“And why not.” Beard banged the table, waking up Marjory who ran the Charity Women’s Institute. She was eighty-four and prone to a snooze. “We have money. We have an industry.”

“I don’t think making jam and teas cosies is an industry, Mister Beard,” said Marjory. “We’re hardly likely to fight the deficit on those ground.”

“Charity holds some of the richest people in the United Kingdom!” thundered Beard. “Collectively we have enough money to keep our heads above water for decades! I say, ‘May has let us down’. I say, ‘let’s grab the bull by the horns and show the country just what Brexit is all about’. Fine – if the Conservative party wish to slave under the iron boot of Brussels then let them! But this Beard is not for turning! Who’s with me?!”

Marjory was asleep again, and Hartley-Smith would vote for anything as long as he could splatter a few foxes over the countryside, so with a two thirds majority the council of Charity passed the motion – they would become independent and pull out of the EU.


A press release was put together by Wardon Grimly. An ex-Daily Mail writer, he was bumped to the Charity Gazette after he got drunk and kidnapped the editor’s Bugatti, driving it into a bus load of nuns and ending up as a front-page spectacle. He only made matters worse by slapping his manhood onto the dock and offering the judge to ‘consider his previous, i.e. – the amount of blart who’d had a good chow on THIS chodpiece’ before laughing hysterically and passing out in his own vomit. He would have been canned for a good, but there were rumours Grimly held compromising photographs of senior society figures in all manner of sexually deviant liaisons – including farmyard machinery – and he was lumped with a hefty payoff, a slap on the wrist, and the editorship of The Charity Gazette as a sop to keep him out of the way.

‘IT’S TIME FOR A CHANGE!’ roared the headline.

‘For too long the barmy Brussels bureaucrats have held this country to ransom. With May running scared and the loony Lefties in the Tory party unwilling to pull up the drawbridge, it’s up to Charity Mayor, Douglas Beard, to strike a blow for Britain.

‘”We can’t let the will of the people be crushed,” says Beard. “It’s time to reclaim our sovereignty back!”

Local bonkers Labourite, Cressida Lump, had other ideas. “He’s f*****g mad!” she screamed into this reporter’s face, wearing a T-shirt calling for sharia law. “He’s f*****g well b****d, c*****g insane, the d***less w**k biscuit!” Cressida, 44, is unmarried, and known to be a woman.’

In a radical plan to shore up the independence of Charity, Mayor Beard has elected to:


We believe, at the Gazette, that this will build a stronger, brighter future for all the residents of Charity, and fully back Mayor Beard on his crusade’.


Mayor Beard acted quickly with the local constable, Hardly Crawford, to set up check points on all roads leading into the village. There were four of them, and Hardly knew a couple of law-and-order ne’er do wells with solid Brexit values. Yes, they had, on occasion, be known to strut around the village in brown shirts and been overheard extolling the virtues of National Socialism, but they had their own firearms and an in-built detector for anyone of a foreign-sounding bent, and so could be trusted to make sure ‘the wrong type’ didn’t gain access to Charity.

Within the first few hours they’d stopped a group of visiting French war veterans and a coach-load of Spanish toddlers. There had been the threat of the toddlers overwhelming the border force, but a couple of barrels of buckshot in the side of the coach and the popping of a few balloons soon convinced the Spaniards to holiday somewhere else, although one of the brave border boys did suffer a hefty punch in the testicles from one particularly handy four-year-old.

Which left the problem with the wall. They could build it – how hard could a wall be? But how high should it be, and who should they get to build it?

The solution presented itself when Yanis Kuchma, a resident of Greek and Ukrainian heritage, complained to the village council about the lurch to the right by Beard.

“We could get Yanis to build it,” said Hartley-Smith. “He’s a foreign type, AND he’s unemployed.”

“He’s retired,” said Marjory.

“Well, that’s unemployed, isn’t it!” said Hartley-Smith.

“But you’re unemployed too,” said Marjory.

“Yes, but I’m British!”

“We’re English, here,” muttered Beard. “I don’t mind the Scots and the Welsh and the Irish, as long as they understand that they’ll have to follow whatever rules and regulations we impose on them. That, after all, is democracy.”


The words echoed around the village hall as Joseph Lenin stood at the entrance. That wasn’t his real name, which was Joseph Wotherington Starkly Gimble The Third, but Joseph had been educated in the rights and wrongs of society by a lovely young woman with enormous talents at Eton and had decided, upon graduation, that he would change his name to the father of communism and fight for the working man. Finding a working man he could stand to spend more than ten minutes with was another thing entirely, but his heart was in the right place, even if his wallet wasn’t when it was time to get a round in.

“Please, Joseph, let’s drop the cockney accent,” sighed Beard.

“Not a chance, cor blimey!” hollered Joseph. “We as wot lives in this village here REFUTE your claim to cut us off from the EU. And the rest of the UK, come to think of it. You may outnumber us, BEARD, but only by a small majority, apples and stairs.”

“This is a private meeting and you are not invited!” yelled Hartley-Smith. “We have important matters of state to discuss, and you are merely smelly. Now get lost, before I set the dogs on you!”

The dogs, a small brace of chihuahuas, yapped around his feet, eager for a nip at Joseph’s ankles.

“Aye oop, you’ll nay take ower liberty, ya prize wazzock,” warned Joseph, shaking a warning finger at them. “By my right as a working man of the t’field, me and ma kin will see you defeated, by eck!”

“Is that Northern?” asked Hartley-Smith to Beard. Beard shrugged.

“LIBERTY OR DEATH!” yelled Joseph, and then stormed out, closing the door gently behind him. He was angry, but he still had manners.


The news started to trickle through the Charity grapevine when the Gazette hit the door mats the next day. Considering just under half of the town – those that voted – had opted to remain in the EU, the consternation was quite subdued.

Charity was a village unused to protest. The nearest it got as a collective was when a supermarket had threatened to open an Megastore a few miles away, until one of the local historians (which numbered in the hundreds in a town like Charity) pointed out that King Arthur had once taken a dump in the area the supermarket was proposing to build on, and the rest of the Knights of the Round Table had probably carried out their ablutions in the surrounding fields, so basically the whole area should be sectioned off as a historical site of interest. This was ably helped by the erection of phalanx of signs saying, ‘King Arthur Shit Here’ and ‘Lancelot Dropped a His Caks In This Field’, and the supermarket soon lost interest and moved their plans for world domination to a poorer area of the country.

Although the news was slow to travel, the response was even slower. The majority of the population of Charity were pushing retirement age and, although a libertarian value was mainly predominant in the village, the Conservative numbers just nudged the odds in Beard’s favour. Besides, there was a canasta tournament going on, and the Charity charity ball to organise, which this year, rather embarrassingly, was in aid of refugees. There had been some in-fighting in the Charity charity commission about which part of the world they should be raising money for, as there were a number of frightful hot spots scattered all over the globe and a lot of the refugees had some appalling conditions to put up with, so after a lot of indecision from the Charity charity commission they had decided to put it to a vote later on. Now the point seemed mute.

Of course, no one really took Beard’s proposals seriously until the news hit the pub.

“That bloody Beard’s getting too hairy for his own good,” said Jackson Lancaster, who had a thing about facial hair. Jackson had lived in Charity since he was a nipper, and could claim the title as the second oldest resident (Marjory claimed the first). Unlike Marjory, Jackson had toiled in the fields as a child, and then claimed his own fortune through various shady antiques deals once he discovered he could flog any old tat as a genuine 18th century Georgian foot scraper, as long as he tried not to laugh. “We don’t want to close the borders. I sell ‘alf of my shite to the foreigns!”

“Aye,” nodded Cooper, the barman. “You mean ‘gullible foreigns’?”

“The point is, ‘ee can’t close the borders when. One, we ain’t got no borders, and two, ‘ee’s a twat.”

“He’s the mayor, Jackie boy,” said Cooper. “He can do what he bloody well likes, can’t he? We elected the sorry bastard into office, and now we have to pay for it.”

“Well, I bloody dun’t,” said Jackson, slamming his ale on the table. He turned to face the pub, which was crowded for a Friday afternoon. There were a lot of wrinkly faces hidden in the shadows; a lot of the old timers had come out. They were mainly a sorry looking lot – borderline alcoholics and retirees coasting on a hefty pension or a trust fund – but they could be relied on to get indiscriminately angry if the polemic was fiery enough. “I says I didn’t vote for that baastard to close them foreigns out! I says, we’re a progressive village! We won’t have Beard and his brown-shirted shits tellin’ us wot we can bluddy well do, will we!?”

There were a fair few rumblings, punctuated by the odd bout of flatulence. Jackson could tell they were riled up.

“Let’s go and storm that bluddy village ‘all and show that Beardy twat who’s in bluddy charge!”

A few burps this time. He was definitely getting to them.

The door to the pub burst open, and Joseph Lenin stood in front of them, framed by a corona of sunlight, the rays dancing off the edge of his specs.

“I hear you, old man,” said Joseph with and upward tilt of his chin. “Let me get on the dog and phone, by eck, and we’ll have a revolution here that will shake the world to it’s very foundations!”

Jackson nodded. Smiled. Sipped his pint.

“Let me ‘ave a wazz first and we’ll get started!”



The Sortitaht Joke Book!


Laugh! For one day you will all be dead!


In this ever changing world in which we live in, we could give up and start banging our heads against the wall until all the Trumps and Farage’s go away and we start seeing unicorns and pixies dancing in front of our eyes whilst we rub shit into our hair and start yelling at lamp-posts about the Aliens from Clagnut 7 who have come to steal our pubes.

Luckily a ray of sunshine is here to remind us that, hey, life isn’t all grumbles and pains, as we present a series of chucklesome japes and jolly old thigh slappers which are bound to bring a grin to your face (Warning: Grin not guaranteed).

Man A: How many racists does it take to change a lightbulb?
Man B: None. They’re too busy slamming their dicks in the fridge door.

Man A: I say, I say, I say, my Nigel Farage has no nose!
Man B: How does he smell?
Man A: Like the bigoted, intolerant barrel of pig shite we all know he is.

A man walks into a vets with a Donald Trump on a lead. The man says, “Doctor, you have to help me. My Trump is very poor and sickly. Is there anything you can do to help him?” The vet picks up the Donald Trump, gives him a brief once over, and then says, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to put him down.” The Donald Trump owner is stricken with grief, and asks why, and the vet says, “Look, just trust me on this one. If I don’t sort the bastard out sharpish there’s no telling what the twat will get up too next.”

A UKIP supporter walks into a hospital and says “Doctor, doctor, I feel like a bridge.” The doctor takes on look at him, and then says, “Well, you should be deeply ashamed. It’s because of shits like you we’re voting to get out of Europe, and I’m from the facking Ukraine, you dense twat, which means in the future you’ll only have Boris Johnson and Ian Duncan-Smith to pop your haemorrhoids because they’ll be sending anyone foreign back. Do you feel proud, you great knob? Do you? Now FUCK OFF!”

Theresa May walks into a hospital and says, “Doctor, doctor, I feel like a pair of curtains!” The doctor takes one look at her and says “Stay there” before reversing a truck over her robot-testicles as punishment for the dismantling of the NHS.

Man A: How many Daily Mail readers does it take to change a lightbulb?
Man B: All Daily Mail readers are cunts.
Man A: Correct.

Man A: Knock, knock.
Man B: Who’s there?
Man A: Richard Desmond.
Man B: Fuck off.

Well, my sides! We’ve all had some jolly japes, and a few swears along the way as well, and we all know The Swears are big and clever because Stephen Fry said it, and if Fry says it then it must be true. After all, he once said dinosaurs were made out of fake, plastic boobs, so it must be true. (Note to Mail, Express and Sun readers – Stephen Fry did not actually say this. As we all know, dinosaurs are actually made out of lactating dicks.)


The Corner – Nice Weather We’re Having These Days…

Amazingly, we have yet another day when the tabloids aren’t being total and utter dangly clockweights. They have decided to concentrate on the fire at Grenfell Tower in the case of The Mail, and some old rollocks about how drinking wine can stop you going mental for The Express.

It does make me wonder why they don’t try and pursue this kind of journalistic ideology most days, but then actually filling the remit of what a paper is meant to do (inform) would be against the basic tenets of the bastards who run the damn things. For the journalists, I imagine it must come as a great relief when Dacre or Desmond walks into an editorial meeting and says, “You know, I think we’ll drop the front-page splash about how immigrants can cause cancer in puppies, and actually report on something which has some merit for a change.” (Well, apart from The Express, but at least reporting on snake-oil cures is a step up from their usual anti-European toss).

On the other hand, you’d also know this idea about actually reporting news will only last for so long, before the editors become one with Cthulhu once more and sully the name of journalism by reporting on how the EU are space vampires who are after the UK’s supply of virgin otters.

Anyway, with no stories to report on, here is a picture of the next Republican running for the top job of President.


Clueless, Formless Opinion Is the New In-Thing by Jeremy J. Bigot


What goes on in a bigot’s head when they hear the words ‘racial equality’.


Good afternoon, and welcome to me being a total bastard. As the leader for the Society For Being Total Arseholes I feel it is necessary to put our point across to you, the plebs, that just because our notions may be different to the ‘accepted norm’, that does mean we’re full of cak and should be ignored. Yes, some may say we’re sectarian pedants, but have they REALLY tried to understand what having an opinion about everything without understanding a bastard thing is all about?

Well, for a start, you can have great fun playing Devil’s Advocate, simply because you know you’re right about everything. I was having a conversation with a chap in the local pub the other day. I noticed he was reading a book about migrants, and hoping to expound my purposeless ideology and mayhap fish in another victim for my rapier wit, I opined the viewpoint that all migrants could be economic freeloaders and not refugees. He held up a spirited defence, citing sources, reports and testimonies to the contrary, but luckily my sense of self-worth acted as a barrier to logical argument (after all, what ARE ‘facts and figures’ but opinions backed up by evidence) and I roundly refuted him with the oft-toted phrase “Yes, the lefty, tree hugging, kaftan wearing, metropolitan liberal elite newspapers and books YOU read may say they’re not all economic scroungers, but the Daily Shitwank and Sunday Bollockchops, which I read, says different!”

He then muttered something about me being ‘a gimlet-eyed twat’ and wandered off, and thus the argument was won!

See, in this world of the politically ‘right on’ there has to be an alternative voice, and if that alternative voice can push logic aside then all the better! As our Futile God, Nigel Farage, has evidenced – just because the facts are completely wrong and can’t be proven doesn’t mean you can’t talk a load of old cak if you sound convincing enough.

I am also delighted to see a rise in the amount of racist shits available for comment down any pub, club or restaurant, as this can give the opinionated adventurer cause to comment on the concept of political correctness gorn mad. Freedom of expression should be a cherished notion, even if some see that ‘freedom of expression’ as just an excuse to be, as one hippy told me, ‘a total and utter right wing bigoted shit-stain on the claggy, diseased arse biscuit of humanity. Man’. You should be able to sit in a pub with a copy of Mein Kampf, wearing a T-shirt with Hitler on it, and make as many offensively off-colour remarks about race, sexual orientation, immigration, wimmin, foreign-types and any other myriad subject the peace-and-love-and-respect-for-other-people crowd deem as ‘offensive’.

We have grown soft as a nation. I know this because a four year old kicked me in the nuts. AND he was foreign. Which just goes to prove my point.

Both myself and Mrs. Bigot are of the opinion that, to make the country strong again, we should be able to thrust our hot and sweaty tumescent opinions right in the faces of the so called ‘factinista’ crowd. And if the lefty do-gooders want to beat us with shitty sticks until we fuck off back to our spanking torture dungeons where we shove small, household pets up our sphincters because WE LOVE THE PAIN, then that’s their entitlement. However, it shall not act as a barrier to our opinions! NOTHING will stop our opinions, for we are the formless mass of clueless gibbons in this world, and WE SHALL RULE!! FACTS ARE MERELY OPINIONS!! DOWN WITH EVIDENCE!! UNSOURCED JUDGEMENTS SHOULD BE CLASSED AS NEWS!!

Now, to go onto a chatroom and propagate the idea that all foreigners eat babies. I can’t prove it, but you can’t NOT prove it, either!

The Corner – You Will Obey Your Masters!

Better late than never, and today we have a mini-bumper crop of contestants for Who Can Be The Biggest Bastard. Well, actually it’s the same old culprits, so let’s buckle down and get on with pointing the finger at the total gits.

And first up we have The Daily Bastard, with their usual common touch and understanding of the trials and tribulations of the working man, by splashing out on a headline which basically says ‘oh, calamity – what dreadful fate awaits our glorious captains of industry, as posh knobs in wigs have made it easier for Scrotey McPaup to take Moneybags O’Twat to court for kicking him out of a job without reason’. ‘Furious bosses warn of tide of claims’. Bollocks to the lot of them! Should read ‘Rich geezers weep at prospect they can’t be total shits anymore’.


Speaking of shits, it’s The Daily Chodmonkey, with some more made up crap about the EU. This time the enemy of reality is harking on that Britain is – once again – ready to quit the EU and call them smelly because Brussels have told them to stop being such a big girl’s blouse.


The actual article is quote marks friendly and lacking in, well, any facts, as some senior knob in the gov. has let slip to Richard Desmond’s gaping ring that they’re definitely, totally, utterly and completely ready to walk out if Brussels don’t agree to something or other. It’s almost like they’re making it up.



Posho’s Vs Scum – the New Politics


Some Tory students, yesterday

What’s in a name? Apart from Farty McBottyburp – I think we can all agree what’s in THAT name.

When I were a lad – aye oop, coalmines, whippets an’ t’drippin’ – if you were a Tory you obviously had a piss-load of money and could afford to go to Posh School, where the teachers drove Bugatti’s into the classroom and everyone ate roast paup for dinner. It was seen as a mark of dishonour to be labelled a Conservative around my way, because it meant you had no concept of the reality of life, or struggle. It was the word for anti-progress, for keeping the working person down, and for a walk of life which propagated mutual and financial exclusion. If you were a Tory, you were a bellend – end of.

Now, the reason I’m wibbling on about this shite is because last weekend I was down at the local Rub-a-dub (The Scrotey and Ballbag – best ale in the village) with Mrs Sortitaht Towers, and at our usual table sat a bunch of Tory wankers. How did we know they were wankers, and Tory? Well, a couple of weeks ago we had the unfortunate matter of actually speaking to these anal warts, and had the full blast of their political ideology shat all over our mind-pans as they blathered on like credulous windbags about how Thatch was great, Corbs smelled of goat’s wee, and May was a great automaton built to go on a Pleb-Crushing rampage. But that wasn’t the most shocking part.

The most shocking part is, they were students.

When I was a student back in the days when people ran in fear of the horseless carriage, it meant you stuck on a tie-dye shirt, flicked the V’s at The Man, and worked towards a world where Jello Baifra would be claimed God of Everything. If you were of a Conservative bent you were roundly mocked for being a tool of future industry and didn’t get invited to any parties.

Now everything’s changed. Now the label ‘Tory’ means you’ve got enough money to afford a fucking education in the first bastard place! Being a student means you’ve probably got a shit-load of wealth coming out of your parent’s arseholes, and you’re quite happy to sit in my fucking local bastard pub, and blather senselessly about the merits of the free market economy whilst acting like a total cunt!

And what’s worse is the prevalence, at least amongst the arseholes we were talking too, of the proudness of being small-minded, insular and anti-progressive. This was seen a positive way to be! The last thing these gimps wanted was a society where equality was a factor. I can only gain succour from the idea that these cock monkeys were not indicative of the students of today, and that a small minority of shitty marmites espousing cretinously idiotic views about their own lack of social awareness was not a pointer to the future of further education. And I bet they were all virgins as well!

The surge in support for Corbs shows there is a politics on the campus which doesn’t ascribe to these Victorian rules of serfdom the Tory arse crumpets we spoke to wish to foist onto the public, and I’m well aware there is a ground swell of support on the Universities for an end to austerity politics, but it is interesting to come across the flora and fauna which promote the Tory way; to discover that they are, in fact, deeply unpleasant shit monkeys. My only hope is that these arse clowns are not in the majority, or else we’re all fucked right up the Sewanee for the rest of our natural!

The Corner – A Nice Cup of Madness Before Breakfast, Please?

Today’s The Corner is not so much about the tabloids being total and utter bastards, as how delusional and hysterical they can get over subjects.

For a start, we have The Daily Mail and ‘WAR ON DIESAL’S GETTING DIRTY’ because the gov were defeated in the High Court, which – The Mule are saying – will lead to the total and utter annihilation of all known forms of diesel by 2040, which will inevitably lead to the end of civilisation. The rest of the papes who report this has done it with more of a ‘yeah, diesel car ban – anything good on the telly?’ kind of way, as I think we all know this kind of ban can be rescinded depending on what bastards are in power, but The Mule have to go full nutjob, because that’s the only way they can operate.


The Express have decided to crawl up Trump’s bottom with ’Trump Trade Joy For Britain’. I’d hazard a guess that anything involving Trump is hardly joyful, but Richard Desmond is a toadying little shitehawk, and because Trumpy the Elephant said ‘We’ve got such a trade deal for England. So good.’ they’ve decided to get all Grimly Wormtongue on the bastard and give his helmet a right old shining.


I’m not sure Desmond understands the basic concept that everything Trump says is a massive pile of bullshit, but then he doesn’t really read the news. He doesn’t get the idea that when Trump announces anything it ends up as more of a ‘Three Stooges’ scenario than a serious and diplomatic presidential move.