The Full English Brexit Part 1: Stowe Upon Wold Upon Old

In hindsight perhaps two trips over the Atlantic in the space of a month was a tad ambitious. You know, because it's hard to keep up the sparkling blogging wit and all. Oh and he won't sleep on planes anymore, there's that too.

You're looking mighty chirpy for someone who whined over the entire Atlantic.

The Cotswolds is the kind of place where the Eton crowd goes to drink G&Ts and make snide comments about Polish people.

So did you read philosophy at the Ox or the Bridge? Or the Gravel Pit and decaying Ag Hort block?

If you look hard enough, you can spot the peasants who owe me 90% of this year's barley crop in exchange for the extraordinary privilege of getting to live in the cooling shade of my mighty castle.

Ahem, excuse me gentlemen, I came to the Cotswolds precisely because this kind of thing stays firmly in the ornately-paneled closet, behind the bowler hats and velvet monocle case.

Brussels, eat my shiny metal scone tin.

Daddy, if I keep running this way I think I'm going come out in the 1950s.

Hear ye, hear ye, these miserable miscreants where caught red handed lauding open boarders and free trade. In penance they shall be pelted with a crate of rotten tomatoes, which you'll conveniently find decaying in the two-day long traffic jam to cross the Channel at Dover.

Thank goodness for Brexit, otherwise this lovely field would surely be overrun with a gypsy caravan.

Can we have a special visa for pool cleaners please?

Jolly good old sport, shall we round up the lads and get this fox hunt underway?

Daddy, Brussels said the foxes have rights too. They're convening a committee on the matter and expect to report back in 2025.  In French.

Lord Lexington, I feel like your estate would make the perfect set for a TV show where the cliffhanger is who in the staff deliberately sabotaged the dinner party by placing a - wait for it - sugar spoon in the onion soup.

So Mr. Darcy, I hear there are like seven insufferable ladies in that house over yonder, shall we bugger off down to the pub  and get totally sloshed instead?

Yeah kid, it's like the Sheep's Meadow in Central Park except with actual sheep.

Stowe Upon Wold? That's basically the Union Jack wrapped around a Sunday roast belting out Land of Hope and Glory while waiting for Coronation Street to come on.