So here we are then, fully committed to making Britain GREAT again, by which we mean…actually quite shit.

Balderdash! Things in the good old days were marvellous! (NB: ‘the good old days’ = any time after the stone-age up until around 1975).

In the good old days women had to stop work when they had kids because they needed to get cracking with the cooking and NOT cock things up by having any goddam opinions or orgasms. We could totally rape our wives and call people filthy niggers which was BRILL. We could sexually abuse and beat up our own kids and make them go to work up chimneys and NOBODY MINDED. At school everyone looked just like us and if they didn’t we’d call them darkie or paki or fatty and beat them up. If you were dyslexic we’d call you retarded and stop educating you. If you were depressed we’d call you insane and lock you up. If you were gay (which nobody was in those days, but if you INSISTED) we’d lock you up for that too. If you were a murderer we’d murder you right back, in public, a source of family entertainment we lost the second we started watching that evil television. If you were pregnant and not married we’d take your baby away. If you had a child with a disability we’d take them away too so we didn’t have to look at them. If your husband left you and your children, we’d call you ‘broken’ and be unable to look at you. If you were ‘coloured’ or Irish, we didn’t let you have a job or even a bed for the night. And if you were a transexual…well…we didn’t have THOSE in the good old days, thank you very much.

I realised over the weekend that I was most probably conceived on the eve of the UK joining the EU on the 1st January 1973. Isn’t that just darling? Oh how I love to imagine my parents on New Year’s Eve 1972, all giggly on warm Blue Nun and scoffing prawn vol-au-vents, listening to Jimmy Osmond singing about being a “long-haired lover from Liverpool” and then creating new life at the very moment our country entered a new chapter…actually, imagining my parents like that has made me feel a bit yak…

On Friday, me and Gwyneth did what we Brits do best and got going with some serious binge-drinking. Saturday I woke up and thought: RIGHT, I NEED TO TAKE BACK SOME CONTROL OF MY BORDERS HERE and spent the day with youngest sorting out his bedroom. GONE is the pink Peppa Pig kitchen he loved before he realised he was a boy. GONE the nurses outift he used to dress-up in before he realised it was a dress. GONE the sparkly handbags I donated for dressing up that are now, to him, poison.

I did not weep as we removed these gender-bending role-play items to make space for Action Man costumes and guns. I felt a wonderous sense of POWER that I was finally getting rid of the all the dross clogging up our lives. We don’t have the space for all this crap anymore! From now on we need to operate a strict points system when deciding which toys to allow into the house, because the times they are a-changin’ and I can’t rent this place out and move to Canada with it in this state. Yes, I was one of the Brits who googled ‘moving to Canada’ in the immediate aftermath…

Then eldest came home drunk at 12am. More drunk than her mother at 12am which is a colossal achievement. She is a brilliant drunk, it turns out. We sat in the garden giggling and I can confirm that it is very lovely to be pissed with your offspring. They are better drunk. You like them more.

Sunday morning brought a deep sense of regret. Youngest didn’t mean to give away his beloved Peppa Pig kitchen. Eldest didn’t mean to drink so many vodka cocktails…

Well, TOO LATE, I yelled at them. TOO LATE to change your mind now! The damage is done. SUCK IT UP KIDS. This is what YOU CHOSE…

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