Due to an almost pathological desire to be proven correct, a Remain voter is obsessively checking the sterling exchange rate for signs of terminal illness.

“A bad cold is all I see at the moment.” The resident of the bubble of London commented.

“It’s not enough. I keep watching for signs that pound sterling has hyperactive, terminal, arse cancer.”

This will be a good moment for eighty percent of the London conclave.

“I’ll be right.” The resident states, calmly spreading mushed avocado on home made bread. “There’s one guy on my block who voted Leave. He’s fucking thrilled at the moment. He’s taken back control.”

The London elitist adds,

“This one guy is a middle aged man who hates his job and is always drunk in the local Wetherspoons the moment he gets off the bus. He’s got no real sense of control over his mid-life crisis and his alcoholism is going to kill him. He can’t stop that. He’s too weak. But at least he can make it bloody hard for my kids to go to a European university if that’s what they want. He thinks he’s won now.”

The real concern for this inner city tyrant is that the one Leave voter he knows may die before the full disaster of Brexit unfolds.

“I want him to know he was wrong, before he dies, but if I have to dig him up and scream it at his soul, I’m prepared to do that.”

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