It’s a Brexit remix! Will thinks that the world has gone to the dogs. It has also gone to the Nips, the Krauts and the Frogs, he declares. It’s not like it was when he was a lad. Three thirds of the globe was pink and grown men trembled in their clogs as an Englishman was carried past in a sedan chair. People knew their place in those days, and their place was behind the crowd-control barricades waving paper Union Jacks as their betters paraded before them..
Driven by a savagely military kick drum, Will insists that this remix accepts no deviation from the British norm. Are you a poof? There’s nothing for you here, young man. Funnily tinted? Go home immediately! Insufficiently critical of deviant ideas? Suspiciously tolerant of intellectuals? Why don’t you just go and live there if you like them so much!?!?
Despite momentary investigations of bass solos and steaming organs, the WFBOK remix swiftly resolves to take back control of its tempo and swaggers brutally on to a majestic climax. Remix means remix!
With a full-throated roar of rage and intolerance, the crowd rises as one and demands the immediate public execution of foreigners and paediatricians. The orgiastic ritual reaches its climax as the planet erupts into a whirling maelstrom of severed body parts, burning vegetation and selfies. The falling particles form a fine dust on the ravaged and infertile forest floor. Distantly, a lone voice complains of the poor reception and notes that he is just going into a tunnoo. He is not yet aware that, from this tunnoo, there is no exit.
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