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Sunday, 27 November 2016

image for A Victorian Brexit

Lord Britton removed his top hat and entered the door of the gentleman's club.

"Good day, Sir," said the butler holding the door. "It's good to have you back."

The Lord smiled at the servant and thought what a lower class moron the man looked. He wondered if he could have the butler sacked, but he had other business with the club secretary, Count Percy Twatarse.

Count Percy's bushy moustache bristled with shock when he heard the Lord's news. "You're leaving?" he gasped. "But that's preposterous!"

"Nevertheless it is what I want," explained Lord Britton. "I'm mostly sure of it - about 52% sure but that's enough. For over 40 years I have frequented this club, enjoyed its facilities and paid my dues. I've finally decided that I can't be bothered with it any more. I'm leaving."

Count Percy sighed. "Nobody has ever left the Victorian Cliche Gentleman's Club before, I'm not even sure how the process works. You'll miss out on all the perks - the free booze, the contacts, the grand balls. I really don't see why you wish to leave. Whatever will you do on a Saturday night?"

"I'm sure I'll find something," said the Lord, brimming with enthusiasm. "I'm far too good to be in this club. I'm going to start my own club instead, and none of you are allowed to join. In fact, nobody can join at all! It will be my very own Lord Britton's special Gentleman Club, the envy of the world."

The club secretary was puzzled. "But if nobody is allowed into your club, Lord Britton, then won't it just be...shit?"

Britton looked offended for a moment, then laughed. "Of course not. If I say it will be amazing then it will be amazing, and there is nothing you can do to change my mind. Now I want to leave immediately."

"Yes, Lord Britton, as you wish. Now, the membership contract is renewed annually, so you'll need to keep paying until June."

"Very well," said Britton. He was impatient now and seemed to be itching to exit.

"Also you recently signed an agreement with Herr Schickelgruber about selling him ten workhouses. That is likely to be invalidated as you will not be here to complete the transaction. In fact many of your business contacts are likely to turn their back on you."

"Yes, yes. I know there will be a financial hit. I'm leaving anyway. Because..." Lord Britton hesitated. "Because I think you're all cunts!"

Count Percy looked shocked, and his tone became less diplomatic. "To be honest, Lord Britton, it is something of a relief. You've always been a difficult member here, blackballing new gentlemen and even trying to avoid paying your fees. Now run along. I'll finish off this paperwork and post it to you. It's probably for the best if you don't come back here. And good luck with your...whatever it is you'll do now."

With a spring in his step, Lord Bradley Britton skipped out of the front door.

"Oh frabjous joy!" he cried. "Now back to the opium den for me."

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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