I see your baffled and exhausted face, even more confused and worn out than the rest of us after chasing yet another week of farcical Brexit nonsense. You must feel like a dog chasing a clown car – every time you clamp your teeth down on a new development, something else falls off. Honestly, how are you even supposed to cover this chaotic bullshit?
March 29th has been and gone, as has Meaningful Vote 2.5 – Meaningful Vote With A Vengeance. If Theresa May honestly thought Labour were going to write the Tories a blank cheque to pass Brexit and then hand off the process to a mystery winner then she’s well and truly lost the plot. It’s far more likely that this was yet more playing politics, another quick shifting of the blame to those pesky Remainers and Marxist traitors. Never mind that it’s the ERG that have constantly undermined and refused her, their most vocal and visible shitheels and liars-in-arms in Rees-Mogg and Johnson now deciding that the promise of a new leader is enough to win them over after all. It’s the country third, the Conservatives second and Boris first each and every time. They’ve given up even pretending that this was ever about the little guy or the disenfranchised Leaver.
We’re reduced to yet more paralysis, a parliament in laughable gridlock and a PM with a bunker mentality so severe that she thinks she’s Eva Braun. Lead a German Shepherd to her now and she’d probably poison it and insist it’s the Will of the People. The indicative votes proved to be an absolute joke, but even they aren’t as transparent as May would have us believe – she’s still applying pressure on anyone who’ll listen, with those still daft enough to back her catastrophe of a deal voting down any and every alternative in an attempt to force it through rather than voting with their conscience.
She has comprehensively and staggeringly failed, throwing her already paltry legacy into the flaming bin-fire of history. All she’s succeeded in doing has been to aggravate and exacerbate, as unwilling and incapable as she is of working across party divides. Starting Monday she may well yet have a customs union forced upon her by parliament but in all honesty, who fucking knows these days? It’s just as likely that John Bercow will pull a sword from the stone, decapitate everyone in the building and declare himself Emperor of New Britannia.
In the meantime, everyone else gets angrier and angrier as the total lack of transparency and the colossal levels of incompetence strip away any hope those from either side have of a satisfactory conclusion. Tommy Robinson gets up on his podium, decrying the great British betrayal and spectacularly missing the point. If he gets the hard Brexit he advocates, I somehow doubt he’ll be the first one welcoming the surge of non-EU migration as we desperately swap visas for trade deals. He’s also nowhere near representative of the millions of people sceptical of the EU and doesn’t deserve lauding as their champion.
Equally, a handful of arrested bell-ends isn’t representative of a whole day’s protesting and shouldn’t be presented as such. Was there a lot of gammon on display? There was a Toby Carvery full, but for fuck’s sake, 17.4 million people aren’t all thick and unwashed racists. If we’re going to carry on trying to patronise them into submission, we may as well hand whoever ends up in charge a second referendum with a No Deal majority on a silver platter.
You’re right, Jon Snow, there were an awful lot of white people there. But the Remain one was kind of pasty too and you’ve been to fucking Glastonbury. Besides that, if things go on the way they’re going, you won’t have seen anything yet.
I see you, Jon Snow, wrapped in furs and shivering on the roof of Westminster. I feel the wind whipping against your face, the snow rushing around you in flurries. I see the crowds around you, all of you huddled together, the last stand of the metropolitan elites. Your chai lattes, critical thinking skills and fact-based arguments won’t save you now.
I see the horde emerge, Jon Snow, a blue-eyed sea of dead white faces emerging from the blizzard. The whole country is overrun and at their head? At their head rides the Whitest Walker of them all, his tousled blond hair whipping around him. Boris Johnson, The Shite King, first of his name. All he’s ever wanted is to rule and he doesn’t care if it’s over a wasteland of corpses.
You thought you’d never seen so many white people before?
You know nothing, Jon Snow.
I see you, Jon Snow. I fucking see you.
