I see the new firm edges of your previously easy smile, like a golden Labradoodle whose boundless enthusiasm has been muted by constipation. You’d love to pop and fart your frothy bluster all over the opposing benches but someone’s had a word in your ear and told you to dial it back a bit – it’s time for Boris’ best impression of the noble statesman now, no more finger-wagging and talk of surrender.
This was supposed to be the week in which you finally secured a win – the awful, inflexible bureaucrats of the demonic EU showed just how inflexible they are by bending and giving you a deal, knowing full well that you probably would have quite liked to blame them for it all going wrong. Instead they denied you that opportunity, repackaging 95% of May’s deal and re-gifting it back to you, leaving poor old Theresa feeling like every woman in a boardroom ever who’s heard a suggestion of hers fall on deaf ears only for a man to get a pat on the back for repeating it ten seconds later. We’d feel more sorry for her if it hadn’t been a fucking useless suggestion in the first place, aimed at a boardroom stacked with sociopaths who make Alan Sugar look like Deregulate-Me-Elmo.
You pulled off the pipe dream – you negotiated the DUP out of the room and opened up the possibility of competitively slashing our worker’s rights and common standards. Northern Ireland are now offered the fantastic opportunity to remain in the EU’s common market, with the DUP retaining the 17th Century women’s reproductive rights they love so much. Never mind that it pushes Arlene Foster out of your loving billion-pound embrace – at this rate you’ll be governing alone, with nobody but James Cleverly in a gimp suit slathering through his ball gag at your feet.
The Letwin amendment is not some gross betrayal of democracy – it’s a damning indictment of just how little trust there is in this dishonest government to tell the truth about any of their intentions. Through sheer exasperation and exhaustion there’s a good chance this deal will limp over the line and as such it desperately needs proper scrutiny and oversight. Kier Starmer is bang on to point out that there’s no reason to deviate from EU standards if our own are to go up. Reassurances from the Dominic Raabot offer no hope whatsoever, particularly when coming from a man with all the human warmth of a T-1000 on a murder spree at an Arctic research station. That it’s somehow remarkable that MPs have to work on a Saturday just to get things done when the public’s working time directives hang in the balance shows just how far removed the political squabbling is from the people actually impacted by this shit-show.
It’s also worth pointing out that approving the deal does nothing to ameliorate the risk of no-deal, as there’s still every chance we could default back to it if we fail to pass a trade agreement during the transition period. You couldn’t be honest if you tried, Boris Johnson, so it would be madness to not legislate to protect us from that outcome. The delays might be maddening to those desperate to see Brexit happen but it’s utter rubbish to suggest that simply approving this deal is anywhere near the end of it anyway – it’s barely even the start of the odyssey of negotiation we still have to navigate.
It’s your way or bust, Boris Johnson, so now the brakes have been pumped on your ambitions it’s time to play hardball like you always said you would – by not signing and then sending the letter you said you’d never send. Be still, Jennifer Arcuri’s beating heart, for the fearless alpha has just smashed through the thicket, beating his chest, bellowing that he absolutely hasn’t just wussed out completely. You didn’t personally put it in the postbox, did you? You absolutely fearless hero.
It’s a petty, embarrassing little microcosm that accurately sums up just how laughable this whole farce has become. It never ends, dragging on forever, a never-ending loop of political one-upmanship and personal humiliation.
I see the year 3000, Boris Johnson, and not much has changed but we live underwater. You’re long gone, your name washed away by the relentless tides of time. I see the spires and gantries perched on the floating platforms, the docking point and entrance to the enormous submerged hive city of New Great Britain. I hear the horn of the approaching vessel, a sleek, chrome-plated craft carrying the ambassadors from the European Union.
Lining the walkways, waving their flags and enjoying a rare moment in the now-dangerous sun, I see the crowds. They’re slathered with thick protective creams but their joy is unabashed, for it’s time for the annual festival. Its origins are long lost to time, but its traditions are now embedded in the culture of New Great Britain – the fool in his colourful motley, tumbling up the ramp to greet the visitors, huffing and puffing, holding on desperately to his blonde wig, letter clutched in hand.
I see the ramp of the EU boat lower, emissaries in their flowing robes descending gracefully down it, waving to the crowds. I see the vendors hustling through the crowds, handing out cartons of heavily-seasoned popped algae and strips of candied seaweed. I see the fool cartwheeling forwards, appreciative children laughing and clapping as he tumbles and gurns.
Every year this silly little show, the fool pretending to hide the letter behind his back, blowing raspberries, shaking his head, the ambassador from the EU mock-wagging his finger. No-one knows what it’s all about any more. All they know is that it’s tradition; the bi-annual Extension, a daft little farce in which the Fool blusters, postures and eventually capitulates, handing over his letter to the roaring of the appreciative crowd.
It’s a distraction, isn’t it? Something to keep their minds off the fact the entire planet is fucked.
I see you, Boris Johnson. I fucking see you.
