People with dodgy hips who take five different types of tablets a day renewed calls this afternoon for the UK to commit to a course of action that will exacerbate near-crippling levels of NHS staff shortages and lead to a potential scarcity of vital medical supplies.
The purple-nosed attendees of the Brexit Party rally in Fylde were adamant that a few preventable deaths in hospital corridors is a price worth paying for ideological purity, non-burgundy travel documents and less choice at the deli counter. The very idea of Jeremy Corbyn and Theresa May plotting to deliver a significantly harder Brexit than anyone advocated during the referendum campaign was enough to send many of the Daily Mail wielding bastards into fits of frothy-mouthed rage at how soft this hard Brexit would actually be.
“Look, when the Leave campaigners said in 2016 that no one was talking about leaving the single market, they were speaking figuratively,” said Reg, a retired dickhead from Blackpool.
“What they actually meant was that we should sever all ties with these unelected bureaucrats before we have to waste time with any more elections, and worry about running out of fucking insulin after that.”
Wayne, a racist taxi driver with angina and a carefully curated set of opinions gathered exclusively from the pages of the Daily Express and UKIP election leaflets, agreed.
“This isn’t about whether my Aunt Brenda can get hold of clean tubes for her catheter, it’s about democracy. We knew exactly what we were voting for, even though the ballot paper never mentioned no deal and Liam Fox said it would be piss easy to get a deal, all 17 million of us were definitely voting to be worse off and possibly dead.”
When asked whether they were worried about the inevitable staff shortages that would occur in the event of a no deal Brexit, the response was emphatic.
“We didn’t have German doctors during the war, did we?” shouted Denise, a detestable busybody from Lytham St Anne’s who was born in 1956, “and we seemed to get through that ok.”
I pointed out that a great many people had actually died during the Second World War, and that the spirit of friendship and cooperation with our European allies since then had been instrumental in repairing a fractured continent after decades of violence and upheaval, in response to which Denise muttered something about me being a ‘traitorous cunt’, before heading off to ask a South East Asian couple in a food van what the fuck they thought they were doing there.
One of the speakers at the event was the partially reanimated cadaver of former Conservative MP and open casket of horrors, Anne Widdecombe. I asked Ms Widdecombe for a comment on the suggestion that her party’s approach to this matter was rooted in bigotry rather than the practicalities of ensuring the issue is resolved in a manner that ensures the UK remains prosperous, to which she replied,
“Fuck off, you mincing cock-juggler. I don’t speak to poofs.”