Where Key Brexit Figures Land on that ‘Baby, Feral, Cursed’ Test

You may have noticed that your friends at VICE UK are very young and cool, and love going online, just like you. As such, we have observed an Internet Trend that you too, as a young and cool person, have probably also seen, and perhaps even partaken in. Today a personality test created by Twitter user @dabiofficial has got everyone quite excited, as anything on the internet where you get to centre yourself with absolutely no effort does. @dabiofficial's Personality Alignment test on shindanmaker.com requires you to type in your name, in order to be told where you sit on the internet’s six main personality matrices (Stupid, Horny, Feral, Clown, Cursed, and of course, Baby.)

We have all had wonderful fun typing in our own names this afternoon – I, of course, am a sweet and gorgeous baby, surprising nobody – but we wanted to test its accuracy (and by this I mean we just thought we’d have the craic, type in the names of some famous people, and make it into content). And who better to get the measure of this test than the people whose personalities the internet routinely rips to shreds, and therefore knows better than anyone? We give you Brexit: the personality test.

Right away I am forced to question the quiz because there is absolutely no way that T-May is more horny than she is utterly, utterly cursed. The woman is as cursed as a piece of old jewellery which has started moving around surfaces on its own, and I will not hear otherwise. The clown bit is accurate though.

Ever since Corbs was asked about the naughtiest thing he’d ever done, and replied “That’s far too naughty to talk about,” open-collared for all the world, it was known that he hath shagged, and here is irrefutable proof. The test is good again.

If you go on Facebook, which is where Remainers live (Remainers have three methods of communication: punctuation-free Facebook statuses, stickers on the backs of cars, radio phone-ins where the DJ has to ask them to turn their own radio down in the background), you will see a number of voices insisting that yes, Jean-Claude Juncker is stupid. But have they considered how horny he is? Horny, if you think about it, does not always have to apply to sex: it can be a to-your-bones hunger, the default obsession you switch your mind to when it goes idle, the thing you sweatily dream about and the thing you wake up, ears ringing with horn, thinking about first thing. And that can be anything: you remember the kid at your school who was slightly too horny for cars, for example, or that goth who was horny for Warhammer. You can be horny for food or wine or cocaine. Horniness is basically a very intense, primal hunger, and Jean-Claude Juncker is sopping with it. His kink is: he’s very horny for sending prim e-mails to Theresa May telling her she can’t get what she wants. He is positively frothing for that.

Farage is an interesting one because he is, to some degree, literally all of these things, but the idea that he is Baby before anything else appeals to me. This is because really, deciding that you hate the EU, saying you don’t want to be in it, and starting an entire party for the sole purpose of getting the entire country to exit the EU is the political equivalent is being a baby, deciding that you detest your moving prison, the pram, screaming about it, and then shitting in said pram in a manner so terrible and debased – like, the shit is just all over the pram, I really can’t overstate how much shit has happened here – that your whole family is asked to please leave the shopping centre or security will have to come. So yes, Farage is Baby.

Emmanuel Macron is French and dated his teacher so once again the diagnostic has got the horny value wrong. Macron is basically: the kid who came to your cul-de-sac on French exchange and you said like six words to (“Oui”, “Bon”, “David Ginola?”) and who your mum liked and then when you waved him off on the coach 16 years ago you neglected to ever think about again and when you turn on the TV one day he is now devastatingly powerful and well-known and married to his teacher and negotiating Brexit and there’s you, look, still here, still doing nothing, you’re thinking distantly that doing a Masters might restart your career but you know doing a Masters isn’t going to start your career again, is it, and plus the form to apply for a Masters is very long, so once again you’ll phone your mum up (“Did you see Emmanuel!” she says, your mum always very deliberately French in her pronunciation of his name, “Remember when he asked to switch out of sharing a bunkbed with you because of your onanism!”) and nod and say yes yes I saw Emmanuel anyway mum listen: can I borrow six hundred quid.

On first pass I am inclined to agree that the random algorithm test is actually the most accurate human personality definer in all of history, and that psychology departments at universities across the world should hereby be folded and their tenured academics dragged through the streets as rats: but. Though the initial diagnosis of Boris Johnson is ‘Baby Clown’ (with his little ruffled hair! With those posh little noises he makes on Have I Got News For You!) Boris Johnson is notable for reportedly shagging, properly properly shagging, loads, with rumours of affairs and lovers (his response: “an inverted pyramid of piffle"). So – because he’s only scored a 1 on Horny when he should clearly be a 4 or 5 – we have to assume a small computing error here.

Have you ever met anyone more horned up for anything than Bercow is for the concepts of “order” and “not letting Theresa May do things”? You have not. It isn’t possible. However I am disappointed that Bercow has not also been labelled “feral” because his hair has the exact same vibe of that episode of Peep Show where Mark jumps out of a window at a conference and states that he has “gone feral.”

Angela Merkel is a kindly-faced grandmother from an old-time faery tale who is always outside her gingerbread house dusting the floor with a broom, swish swish swish swish, and she pulls the chubby cheeks of our tale’s hero – Poppinjon, or something – and gives him a small hard loaf of like Germanic rye bread (“To help you ‘pon your travels!”) but then Poppinjon walks past her house at night and she’s torn her kindly grandma face off and she’s just like a skull and some red eyes underneath and she’s eating a puppy from the belly outwards, and anyway yeah I’m sure she’s a nice lady but she has the permanent stance of someone who just carried all her mum’s shopping up three flights of stairs and she’s so cursed I feel like every clock in her house bongs ominously at odd and random hours of the night, so once again the chart is correct. We’re not going into horny. We’re not talking about that.

@joelgolby / @hiyalauren