And lo, Boris stood upon the hillside and a great multitude gathered before him, and he spake unto them, saying:
Blessed are the Brexiteers, for they shall be called the fuckwits of God.
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst during the post-Brexit recession, for they shall be satisfied with extra acorn gruel.
Blessed are they who believeth in Brexit, for they shall see unicorns, pink ones...in sunlit uplands.
Blessed are the racists, for they believeth that leaving Europe will mean fewer Africans in the doctor's waiting room.
Blessed are the armchair economists, for they shall understand Brexit's fiscal fallout better than the CBI, The Dept of Trade and Industry, and The Governor of The Bank of England.
Blessed are the fornicators, for they shall be called The Children of Boris, along with a good many others, I shouldn't wonder.
Blessed are the elderly, for they shall be filled with the Spirit of The Blitz, and their nostalgia for food rationing shall come to pass.
Blessed are the disaster capitalists, for great shall be their post-Brexit fiscal reward. Yea, even unto those who would short the pound and transfer hedge funds to the Republic of Ireland to avoid the economic shock of no-deal.
Blessed are the poor in intellect, for they shall vote me in for a second term.
Blessed are the people of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, for they are about to be royally fucked over. Especially the northerners and the Micks.
Then one of the disciples, he that was called Jacob, gave unto Boris a platter containing a loaf and five fishes, and Boris blessed the food, and sayeth unto Jacob: "Make the most of the bread while it's still in the shops, mate, although we should be OK for fish for a while after we've kicked all the johnny foreigners out of British territorial waters."
And lo, the sky grew dark and a great tempest began to rage, and the people were sore afraid.
"Is it a sign from The Lord?" sayeth one.
And Boris spake unto him, saying: "I'm not sure, mate, but Armageddon out of here just to be on the safe side."