I see your absolutely bloody livid little scowl, your stiff upper lip threatening to wobble with tempestuous indignation. You’ve got a positively rampaging case of the collywobbles, haven’t you? You’re utterly appalled, incandescent with rage, ruddy well peeved off with the utter absurdity of it all. It’s a load of codswallop, isn’t it? She’s rendered herself a festering poltroon, capitulating at the altar of the EU like a cuckolded and craven little scallywag. It’s an embarrassment, a scandal, a betrayal of the principles you and your handful of hard Brexit acolytes have been demanding but done bugger all to pursue. It’s time for a reckoning, isn’t it? Time to pick up your quill and pen a poison letter, scratching out your frustrations in the blackest of both inks and tone.
You’ve no bloody confidence, have you, Jacob Rees-Mogg?
Of course you haven’t. Not you, not Davis, not Johnson or any of the other pro-Brexit cabalists who have committed themselves to the wallflower lifestyle so completely that their arses have now permanently melded with the plasterwork. It’s utter fucking chaos, a parade of nonsensical lunacy charging in and out of the revolving doors at Conservative HQ so fast that if you plugged them into a dynamo you could heat Eton for a month. Esther McVey has gone, presumably exiting the building as a cloud of smoke and bats. Dominic Raab has quit in disgust at the terrible job he did, like a child stomping off the playground with the ball he punctured. Amber Rudd’s back in the cabinet faster than a traumatised grandmother can be flown back from the Caribbean. Stephen Barclay’s in as Brexit secretary, stepping up to fill a role so transient that it drinks out of a brown paper bag in the back of a freight car and is wanted in three states for buggering cattle.
And the cherry on top of his appointment? Michael Gove was offered the job and turned it down, because Brexit is such a wonderful opportunity that he runs away shrieking from the ten foot shitty stick needed to touch it with. At least Raab had the balls to have a go, which is hardly surprising coming from a man so intense that he struggles to get an erection without throttling a teddy bear with one hand and tasering his dick-tip with the other. ‘Picking up Michael Gove’s sloppy seconds’ is a phrase so utterly horrifying that it could make a marble statue bleed from the ears, so no surprise that Barclay’s had to be yanked from the depths of irrelevancy. There’s simply no fucker left that hasn’t quit in protest already or workplace wanked themselves into early retirement too recently to justify a cum-back.
As for the deal itself? It’s a hot mess, a roadmap for an entirely pointless Brexit that satisfies nobody and pleases even fewer. Theresa May is an awkward, bumbling raffia Voodoo doll of a haunted streetlamp who seems to think that the best approach for satisfying dinner guests with a dozen different dietary requirements is to burn the house down with everyone in it. As predicted, the EU’s four freedoms have proven themselves indivisible, with the only blurred edges a few minor capitulations aimed at preventing the return of sectarian violence over the Irish border. It’s been a long, arduous road to potentially end up pretty much exactly where the EU always said we would – accepting their rules in order to retain access to the single market, without any say in how they’re decided.
It’s the best she can do, and now she gets to frantically hold on to her job for the thousandth time this month as the letters of no confidence trickle in. It’s all on a bit of a knife edge, isn’t it, Jacob Rees-Mogg? You might be a devout Catholic, but this is one withdrawal agreement you won’t sign off on. It remains to be seen if there’s any genuine political hunger for the sort of no-deal Brexit that you’ve got a grey little bonk-on for, positioned as you are to rake it in from your shares in investment management firms and hypocritical whoopsie baby bye-bye pills. Drag the process out any further and the country’s likely to fracture completely, exhausted as we all are by the utter farce of it all. It’s unlikely you or your tiny little core of saboteurs gives much of a fuck about that, as determined as you are to tilt us towards crashing out with nothing.
You’ve got a difficult hand to play, Jacob Rees-Mogg, which is why it’s hardly baffling that nobody at your end is actually willing to stand up and advocate loudly for a cleaner break. It’s almost as if no deal stands to massively benefit a very select few at the risk of total economic uncertainty for the rest of us. If it’s what we end up with, the leader responsible is likely to go down in history as an abject failure, and will presumably have to go and live in the lead-lined bunker David Cameron is hiding out in. Better, then, to steer the cart to the cliff edge by tapping at its wheels rather than sitting in the driver’s seat. It’s completely craven, a total abdication of any responsibility, and it strips the public of the very thing you’re supposed to champion – sovereign clarity of choice, taking back control of the decision.
How the fuck can it be that we’re meant to accept that the choices are either no deal or whatever turd May manages to wring out of the EU, and that one of those things is exactly what the Brexiters voted for? If the passion for Brexit is still there, and May’s withdrawal agreement is as calamitous an outcome as you suggest, shouldn’t those that voted Leave now be clamouring to have their voices heard? How can it be undemocratic to return those choices to the people, particularly when it becomes clearer every day that we were falsely – and illegally in some cases – sold a bunch of lies and unfulfillable promises? Even if – and it’s a big if – Remain was taken off the ballot, isn’t it fair, right and democratic to give us the choice between deals rather than forcing a hard Brexit through by sabotage?
Of course it is, Jacob Rees-Mogg. But democracy hasn’t ever really mattered to the likes of you, as cushioned as you are behind nanny’s ample bosom from the pitchforks of the disenfranchised mob.
I see you, Jacob Rees-Mogg, your hands trembling, your eyes bloodshot. I see the rope around your wrists and ankles. I see the wooden platform on which you stand, surrounded by a dozen of your terrified cohorts, a huddle of whimpering cowardice facing the justice of the surrounding masses. I hear them whispering, judging, sneering at you.
I see the foreman hand the slip of paper to the judge, your fate now in the hands of the people. I hear the weeping begin all around as Boris Johnson shrinks into a ball, the smell of urine now filling the air.
The People’s Vote has come back, Jacob Rees-Mogg, and you and yours have been found guilty. I hear the crowds erupt, baying their anger like a pack of wild dogs, the rotten vegetables and bent bananas showering down upon you as you collapse to the ground.
Your punishment will be as inhumane as you deserve for all of you. Farage, McVey, Johnson, Davis and the others. You face a torture so tailored to you all, so personalised to rend and tear at the very fabric of your souls, that your suffering and agony will be absolute.
You’ll be sent to negotiate Brexit. To actually fucking do something about it, and what’s worse? To do it in the people’s interests, rather than your own.
What an inhuman, horrifying thought.
What have we become, Jacob Rees-Mogg?
I see you, Jacob Rees-Mogg. I fucking see you.
