With the Trumpocalpyse on the horizon I'm put in mind of this:
Captain Blackadder: How are you feeling, Darling?
Captain Darling: Ahm... not all that good, Blackadder. Rather hoped I'd get through the whole show. Go back to work at Pratt and Sons, keep wicket for the Croydon Gentlemen, marry Doris... Made a note in my diary on the way here. Simply says: "Bugger."
I'd quite fancied the idea of making it to pension age without some utter arse-gravy smearing fuckwit causing it all to go tits up. Still, it might not get to that.
In every direction, war graves, cemeteries. The real signs of invasion, not the scare-mongered, weak, frightened panic of the bigot.
I'm sure - as those who haven't made any effort to check out how complex it all is might say - it'll be alright.
For official/internal use only:
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