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Like many of you, I had a rough old time on Friday morning.

Having armed myself to the teeth – machete, shotgun, mace – I fought my way to the shops.

Cars were aflame left, right and centre.

Rampaging mobs of Leave voters were in the process of storming the town hall, threatening to hang any Remain council officials from the nearest lampposts.

There was a WHUMFF and an orange fireball reached into the sky as an extremist mob of ERG militia blew up a double-decker bus in the next street.

My eyes streaming from the canisters of tear gas the riot police were pumping into the air, I finally made it to the supermarket where there was, of course, no food.

The shelves were bare, except for the pet supplies aisle, where a group of pensioners were locked in mortal combat with Stanley knives over the last edibles in the place – a few crates of Pedigree Chum.

I tossed a grenade in there and took them all out, threw a few scorched cans of dog food into my backpack and headed home to feed my family, leaping for cover every few yards to avoid the tracer fire from the helicopter gunships that were hovering overhead, blasting away at the rampaging mobs below.

Aside from having to blow away my next-door neighbours when I caught them trying to steal ammunition from the garage, I made it home without incident.

“What a day,” I said, as I staggered in the door.

Except, of course, none of this happened.

We failed to leave the EU by October 31 and, the next morning, everyone got up and went about their business as usual.

The “riots” promised by hardline Brexiteers failed to materialise.

In fact, an awful lot of the stuff these guys promised didn’t materialise…

Boris Johnson did not die in a ditch.

This had been about the only thing I’d been looking forward to.

And yet Thursday came and went and there he was – his baby-faced idiot-coupon grinning and gibbering as he went about his own usual business: failing at everything he promises.

I mean, who can’t die in a ditch? As Caitlin Moran pointed out, even badgers manage it.

(Image: PA)

Nigel Farage did not don khaki and head for the frontlines.

Mostly because there were no frontlines.

And the only item of khaki he owns is probably a Roger Moore-style safari jacket he bought in 1979, still reeking of Blue Stratos.

Mark Francois did not explode.

I mean, here’s a guy who looks like he’s on the verge of exploding at the best of times.

You’d think a couple more pork pies would be all it would take, Monsieur Creosote-style.

He had promised that he would explode.

That the entire Conservative Party would explode simultaneously on the stroke of midnight on October 31 if we had failed to leave the EU.

But, when I turned on the TV in the morning, there they all were, Francois and the rest of them, spouting their garbage all over breakfast news, having very clearly and demonstrably not bloody exploded.

There were UXTs –Unexploded Tories – all over the shop.

By this point, I was getting seriously disappointed in these guys.

But there were notes of relief in all the Leavers’ failures too.

If we did not leave the EU last week, Katie Hopkins had promised to “drink a pot of tea naked in the Apprentice losers’ cafe with Farage’s face on each nipple”.

I fear the British public would have needed to drink something stronger than tea to cope with the sight of that.

Perhaps a shot of neat whisky laced with morphine, broken glass and cyanide.

With a bullet-to-your-own-dome chaser.

However, in true Leaver fashion, Hopkins’ words turned out to be what they always were: a pointless waste of hot air.

She remained fully clothed all of Friday.

Another Leave promise broken.

If it’s real riots you want, then I’d wait to see if Johnson can somehow manage to force through a No Deal Brexit on the new deadline of January 31.

Then the scenes I described in the opening paragraph of this column might well come to pass all across the country.