A New Year message to foreigners from Mother Theresa


The Right-Honourable Member for Maidenhead addresses non-Brits across the Kingdom 

Dear freeloading co-habiters of our sceptr’d isle, 

Something has gone buttock over tit with … well, with everything really. And through a process of elimination I’ve decided it’s the fault of those who have not sprung from the loins of John Bull.

To these unfortunates – that’s you – I say that the time has come for the Home Secretary to paraphrase the shouts of many a boating-pond superintendent of yesteryear, in those bygone, Cider With Rosie, soft-focussed Hovis-advert days, which we, in our crumbling, Ghormenghastly Union way, like to imagine we’re headed back to, post Brexit: ”Get out number 6, your time’s up.”

Yes, your future in her hands.
Yes, your future in her hands.

Let me be clear. The government I lead will continue to extend a lukewarm, time-limited and grudgingly qualified ‘thank you’ to you all.

You are free to continue as the mainstay of our NHS and of our hospitality industry while we negotiate away for a handful of free-trade baubles, your right to stay in post-Brexit UK.

So, until we have no further need of you, rest assured that my colleagues and I will curl our collective lip in barely concealed disdain for you and yours as we have done continually since well before World War II.

To be blunt, good times are just around the corner, and I can’t see why we should share them with you. Utterly independent think-tankers (Is this rhyming slang? Ed.) with absolutely no connection to the Tory party other than the clandestine diversion of funds through the Cayman Islands, tell us that within 20 minutes of signing Article 50, the United Kingdom will experience a blinding entrepreneurial supernova of dazzlingly ginger-peachy trade deals that will have Johnny Furriner cowking on his Camembert.


That’s as it should be, of course. And when we take our country back we’ll ensure that it stays took back [sic]. In pursuit of this objective we will shortly announce an 8 billion pound infrastructure project to build a 20 foot high razor-wire fence around every imperially-measured foot of our islands’ 7,723 mile long coastline. Please ensure you are on the outside of this fence when the time comes: Razor wire can be nasty and I would hate for you to scratch yourself, forcing us to treat you free of charge.

In the meantime, until we recreate a kingdom here on earth, in which, once more, there are 4 pecks to the bushel, 276.187 chains in a league and more firkins to the hogshead than Johnny Furriner can imagine — until that glorious day dawns, you may continue to ply your trade while we use you as bargaining chips to wrest from Brussels our divine right of access to the single market without paying a centime for the privilege.


Though there’s no need to worry, I recommend that you keep your bags packed like Big Brother contestants on eviction night in case we finish the fence ahead of schedule.

There exists a slim chance that my entire shadow cabinet and I will be sectioned under the Mental Health Act before article 50 is evoked. Should this happen, please show yourselves out and turn the lights off when you go.

Let me end with some great news. Great news. For a Great Britain. This morning the pound gained three beads against the wampum. Tighten your seat belts, ye sons of Britannia, we’re bound for glory!

Yours Sincerely