by David Meech
England seems to be in a frightful mess – knife attacks, fires, Brexit, terrorism, Jimmy Savile, Rolf Harris and nightly soundbites from their Prime Minister, Cruella de Vil. Say what you like, there are valid reasons for invading this week and getting it all done and dusted. In fact it may well be in their general best interests since clearly they are incapable of making any sound decision on a national basis, let alone defending themselves. Britain is now like a battered Reliant teetering on two wheels while negotiating a particularly tight corner, with a drunken Del Boy at the wheel and a dizzy Uncle Albert perched on the back seat.
Clearly most Britons would thank us for this effort and who better to take over than a former colony and popular destination for ex-Pats that broadly shares a common language and offers periods of relatively stable weather? Not the Aussies that’s for sure, since they are far too busy shuffling their Prime Ministers about.
Britain was once a proud nation. At one point over 90 per cent of the world’s motorcycles were made in Old Blighty. We used all their Imperial standards such as measurements, auxiliary verbs, class bigotry and counting systems, along with the odd colonial double standard as well. Today the last national product of Pomgolia is financial debt instruments, the spread of which drags misery and turmoil right across this globe. The Brits no longer make physical products, they simply export global misery: and they do it well. Take a look at their rugby media this week. Look at what they did to Iceland, a perfectly friendly nation wanting hardly anything to do with them. Icelanders bathe regularly and rarely complain about things, yet the Poms heartlessly buggered their banking system, through English council debt and the wisdom of their so-called leaders. A tiny nation that still managed to thrash the English in football, despite only being able to play for three whole days in any given year – yet this small and isolated, icy island of Iceland still managed to bring England to its very knees on that frozen football field of fantasm.
Do you see where I’m going with this?
At least if we take over we will no longer need to listen to them going on and on about the World Cup, which they only ever won in 1966, may as well have been 1866, as if they will ever hold that cup again when they can barely hold their own in the Eurovision Song Contest, despite only having to compete against Australia and a few war-torn Ukrainians.
Look what the hell was Australia even doing in the Eurovision Song Contest? Bloody Australians! Can literally no-one stick to a rule these days?
I tell you the opportunities here are positively dangling. Do you see how simple this could all be?
No, let’s not feel sorry for these Pomgolians, a slightly bereft and bedraggled nation of circle jerks loitering on the edge of Europe. A nation who can’t seem to decide whether they are in or out, or back in again and whose fault it all was. Even when they were in, they never committed their currency into the deal did they? No, they did not. Typical. It was all simply a way of being in when they were never really in at all. Britain never adopted the Euro, they merely pretended to join the E.U. for all the wine and cheese. They just wanted the fun bits. Frankly that is fairly illustrative of their commitment to anything in general, in that they can never seem to decide one way or another. Look at this entire Theresa May voting fiasco, a ‘strong and stable nation’ she said, the only party strong enough to clean up the merde that she herself dragged the entire nation through with the Brexit vote. What were they thinking? Anyone know? Then once they decided that they were out, they all wanted to go straight back in again. So who did they want to negotiate all this? Why, the same plonkers who suggested that they leave in the first place.
Can you imagine field directions with this muddle-minded mob coming and going on a war terrain? They’d be all over the show! Can you imagine how quickly this might be all over? Faster than a Lions match on a dry field. By the time they decide they are in they will all want to get straight back out again, but with the same generals, only slowly this time and in reverse gear, while blaming each other.
These Brits don’t know whether they are Arthur or Martha anymore. Martha, I’d say, by the looks of it. It needs to be us to get this done – certainly not the Germans, that would be creepy and lets not go there.
We used to have a perfectly good Commonwealth remember? Used to that is until the Poms changed friends and shut us out of Europe. What they did to the European Union is exactly what they did to the Commonwealth, or what Donald Trump did to the swoop over. They simply cannot decide can they? Suddenly we were persona non grata with our milk, meat and butter, we were in the Commonwealth but the fundamental premise of common wealth had somehow been gazumped by Eurogreed. Bitter much? Yeah nice one mate, and how did that all work out for you? Yeah, nar… and now they are locked out of Majorca here they come again, suddenly best of friends, turning up uninvited at our airports, complaining and wanting all the good houses, jobs and healthcare. Telling us how to run the country so that we can become more like the country they just left because it was all so dysfunctional that they had to leave it to come over here in order to tell us what to do with our country, so that we can become more like the country they had to leave, because it was all so dysfunctional.
Crikey, let’s tackle these bewildered Brits before they bring us all down in a confused fog of mental gammon.
Don’t forget that when we were a dominion, which is basically a colony too feeble to get up onto its knees and perform even basic political felatio, these British politicians used to ask these questions all the time. Does New Zealand deserve to be independent? Aren’t we too stupid and colonial to fully govern ourselves? Would we be dim-witted enough to use tinned spaghetti and pineapple as a pizza topping? Well clearly the answer was yes but we will all go to hell in a handcart the way these Poms are driving their once proud nation straight into the muddy riverbed of the Thames at this very moment.
Look at their refugee crisis. All these immigrants arriving in Britain uninvited, upsetting everyone and getting them all in a tizzy. Not Boris’ grandaddy, the other ones. So after invading Scotland, Ireland, France, Germany, Canada, America, India, half of Africa, Australia, New Zealand, Ceylon, parts of South America, most of the Caribbean and in fact every country on this entire globe bar some twenty or so dodgy and dry bits, the British have now suddenly decided that immigration may not be such a good thing. Theresa puts all the bombs and missiles in at one end and then is surprised when all the refugees stream out of the other.
Nice one Einstein.
Can you see what I am driving at? They simply cannot stick to any given task, these English swine.
Of course this is one of their major conundrums. The bombs and missiles creating all these refugees remain their second to last stable economic product.
I will admit that there many good reasons for not invading Britain. According to recent surveys some 60 per cent of British residents actually wish to emigrate. That is not a healthy sign, least of all for the fact that we may invade only to find everybody long gone bar the Polish. Frankly this is the English for you – they will fight for their country, stand up for their country and proudly defend their country.
They simply do not wish to live in their country.
Not that the English ever emigrate anyway – oh no, since they are privileged they become ‘ex-pats’. It is we colonials who are the immigrants. Do you see what I did there?
Then there is the food – and frankly when we think of all the perfectly delicious countries waiting to be invaded – countries with outstandingly good takeaways such as Thailand, Mexico or Japan, then why would you even bother with England or even worse, Scotland, home of the haggard haggis? You can travel the world and see loads of patisseries and brasseries all pretending to be French – well have you ever seen one pretending to be English or Scottish? Not me. Why the English, whose national dish is now the regurgitated kebab, do not even have a single word in their entire English language that represents this concept of good food. Nope, they simply stole the French word, “cuisine” which is frankly a complete giveaway on that front.
Look all I am saying is that if we popped over now, made a general public announcement that we have indeed invaded, despite no longer having an actual air force and needing to use good old Air New Zealand hobbit class, it should all be over in a matter of hours. Three planes should do it: though let’s leave the Orions at home this time. Take it from me these British will all thank us for it – eventually and after a fair bit of complaining and extended bouts of blaming the wrong people. Theresa May will be relieved to slip away, quietly. Who even cares what they think, since we can give them five minutes and let them come up with a completely different answer anyway? Any ill feeling and we could hold a referendum on it. Then let them bicker amongst themselves about changing the result. Once there we can get them back on their feet (mainly by keeping them well away from the polls) while providing some good overseas experience for our incredibly debt-laden students as they make their way over to the really thriving economies of Qatar, Dubai, Switzerland or Singapore.
After all, no-one can afford to buy a house in N.Z. any longer. Well, unless you’re the daughter of an ex-communist party member (or current) and frequent political donor. Or an international fraudster like Kim Dotcom. Then you can have six or seven but where does that leave us, the stalwart Kiwi?
Clearly we hunger for lebensraum.
Think about it sheeple – once we have the next Rugby World Cup under our belt, alongside the the America’s Cup of course, it does make sense to broaden our horizons and to strike while the iron is hot.