Mr Davis walks into a golf club where Mr Barnier is the president. He pours petrol all over himself then sets it alight, but not before telling Mr Barnier he wants to resign the family membership. Mr Barnier is shocked. “Why are you leaving? Didn’t your Aunt Maggie negotiate a huge discount? We even let you play with your own balls.” Mr Davis remains implacable. “This club is not as exclusive as it used to be. You have let too many foreigners join. We have voted to leave and leave we shall. However, we would still like to continue playing golf here and eating in the restaurant free of charge.”
Mr Barnier, who normally enjoys a good pig roast, is starting to worry about the mess being caused by Mr Davis. “I am afraid we could never allow that. Should I fetch a fire extinguisher?”
Mr Davis, whose pants are well and truly on fire at this point, says “No. We had a vote and whilst only half the family believed my lies about the many benefits of leaving, Bojo our resident clown and Maybot decided we should quit anyway! Furthermore, with all the money saved I will be giving 350 million a week to the National Health Burns Unit.”
Mr Barnier is a little upset and pleads with him not to leave, but Mr Davis is having none of it. “Besides, my friend has a much better golf club in Trumpton. I can play there for next to nothing.”
“Yes, I know,” says Mr Barnier, “but isn’t that a Crazy Golf course? You do know that we will not be able to buy any more of your ‘made in Sunderland‘ golf carts either.”
“I don’t care, I hear Windy Miller’s fresh chlorine-washed chicken is to die for,” says Mr Davis, who has been selling a lot of golf carts to the club, but hasn’t yet succeeded in securing any orders from Trumpton. “Besides, the carts are made in a part of the country that doesn’t matter, as it isn’t London.”
“What about your son, the golf pro who has taught at the club for years? We can’t continue to employ people who aren’t members.”
“Don’t be so stupid. You need him and you need to keep on selling us those special BMW and Mercedes golf clubs we all love so much, even if we can only use them to play crazy golf.”
Mr Barnier thought about this for a while, then with a heavy heart turned to Mr Davis, whose smug little face was still just about recognizable and said, “Actually we don’t need to sell you anything. Now, why don’t you just piss off and stop wasting everyone’s time!”
And that my friends is the correct way to write sad humourless little allegories. Instead of the pro-BREXIT botty dribble created by a Kremlin troll farm and circulated with the help of UKIP. You can view the original article this is in reply to here.
Oh we did all laugh so much down at the BREXIT golf club, because leaving the European Union; a complex body which looks after the security of its members, guarantees human rights and promotes free trade, is exactly like leaving a golf club. It is a shame that Aston Martin will have to halt production until an EU licence is in place, but not to worry: I hear there are plenty of jobs going in the north, picking potatoes, once all those pesky foreigners have all been safely deported. Never mind, I hear you say: the fate of Aston Martin will be a top priority for Brussels. Good thing we are also not too worried about the jobs lost in the city of London either, now the banking hub is busy relocating to Frankfurt and Paris. Who needs the 9 billion in tax revenue the city feeds back into the economy annually?… certainly not the NHS, already awash with cash. This, of course, is just a pittance compared to the final divorce bill, which will be measured in tens of billions. I didn’t hear much about that during the leave campaign. Still, it is what we all voted for, well just over half of us. Nobody explained that low-income families would be around 400 pounds a year worse off; that low-cost air travel would be a thing of the past, or that we are going to have to ask Trump to help us build a Mexican-style wall across the Irish border. Why worry? Our elected representatives seem to be doing such a fine job. That is when they are not swilling down ale in the House of Commons bar or slapping their secretaries arses and having them order up sex toys if the fake news is to be believed.