Choose lies. Choose three jobs. Choose no career. Choose a divorce. Choose a really, really, really fucking big television, Choose auto-telling machines, coffee salons, artisan beers and self-service checkouts. Choose private healthcare, institutional cancer and dental veneers. Choose variable-rate private rentals. Choose a starter flat. Choose your competitors. Choose leisure wear made by children. Choose a corner suite on a payday loan in a range of fucking highly-flammable fabrics from non-EU countries. Choose PAYE and wondering where the fuck your Council tax went and all those fucking trees. Choose sitting on that Lay-Zee-Boy watching mind-numbing spirit-crushing talent shows, stuffing fucking calorie-counted, emulsified diet food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in an over-priced nursing home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up ministers you voted for to replace your lazy fucking conscience. Choose no future. Choose lies . . . And why would I not do a thing like that? I chose to choose lies: I chose nothing else. And the reason? There is no reason. Who needs reason when “brexit means brexit”?