Mr Gammon got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning, as he did most days. His red face shone like a baboons bum and his round belly protruded over the top of his pyjama bottoms.

Mr Gammon was in a terrible mood, even more terrible than usual. The roses in his cheeks had spread across his entire face, leaving an angry red mass of flesh, broken only by two beady eyes, a bulging nose and a snarling mouth.

Mr Gammon was mad. BIG MAD. Mr and Mrs Brownskin and their three children had moved in to the house next door just yesterday and already the neighbourhood had changed, for the worse.

The smell of seasoned food wafted in through his open window, filling his flailing nostrils with the scent of foreign spices. While the sounds of ethnic music pounded provocatively against his eardrums, causing his head to nod along without permission.

Mr Gammon was mad. BIG MAD. The new neighbours spoke a language he didn’t understand and ate food he didn’t recognise. They wore colourful clothes that hurt his eyes and had jobs, jobs that should have been given to red faced people like him.

Mr Gammon was mad. BIG, BIG MAD. He did not understand why the Brownskins were here. Mr Gammon thought Brexit would stop people like the Brownskins from coming to his country, to his neighborhood, to the house next door.

Mr Gammon decided to take his concerns to the internet, so other sympathetic gammons could make him feel better about himself. Mr Gammon said many awful and bad things about the Brownskins and his gammon friends laughed and liked and joined in the fun.

Mr Gammon typed all day until his fingers were tired and he’d said every mean thing he could think of. Then Mr Gammon smiled. Mr Gammon was happy because he didn’t receive a ban or a sanction for his verbal athletics that day. Mr Gammon felt safe in the knowledge that although Brownskins could move in next door with their smelly food and garish clothing, they could not stop him from exercising his freedom of speech. It was common knowledge that you could say anything you wanted about Brownskins on the internet with no consequence.

Mr Gammon laughed, his face grew redder and as is customary with Gammon’s – his micro penis retreated even further until it nestled pitifully amidst his wrinkly old scrotum and tangle of public hairs .

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