The Devil and Hitler are sitting in a smoky corner of Hell, nursing lukewarm beers and still seething about 1945... “Right,” says the Devil, “those bloody Brits beat you fair and square. Time to punish them properly. Let’s ruin what’s left of their empire. ”1947 – India and Pakistan independence. The jewel in the crown gone overnight. The British sighed, made a cup of tea, and carried on. 1956 – Suez Crisis. Humiliated on the world stage, forced to pull out with their tails between their legs. They grumbled, made another cup of tea, and carried on. 1960s–1970s – Wave after wave of colonies leave. The empire shrinks to a few rocky outposts and a stubborn attitude. They muttered “typical,” made a strong cup of tea, and carried on. 1973 – They join the Common Market. Sovereignty starts leaking away by the teaspoon. They complained, made a cup of tea, and carried on. 1997–2010 – Blair years, open-door policies, and the slow transformation of the country. They moaned, made a very large cup of tea, and carried on. 2016 – Brexit. The people finally vote to take back control. The establishment spends the next years watering it down, delaying it, and half-implementing it. May’s deals, Johnson’s compromises, the Northern Ireland Protocol, the continued rule-taking… pure betrayal. The British people gritted their teeth, made an industrial-strength cup of tea, and still carried on. 2024 – Starmer walks into Number 10. Taxes up, free speech down, small boats still arriving, and the Brexit “reset” looking suspiciously like a quiet reverse. The public sighed the deepest sigh in recorded history, made a kettle-full of tea, and somehow… still carried on. The Devil leans forward, genuinely impressed and slightly worried. “Alright, Adolf… these people are invincible. They’ve survived the collapse of the empire, the loss of industry, mass immigration, the EU, Brexit sabotage, and Starmer. What the hell can we possibly do now to finally finish off those pesky, unkillable Brits? ”Hitler turns slowly. His eyes narrow. He remembers his defeats; he remembers Dresden. That old dictatorial scowl returns. He rises to his full height, juts out his chin, and in the most thunderous, spittle-flecked, pure-rage scream he can muster, he roars: “BURNHAM!”