Oh Britain I’m not angry with you; I’m just disappointed. Yes, we might well draw on the age-old idea that nothing can shake the plucky countenance from the people of this small island; but tea and a swipe of lippy are not going to get us out of this one. Let me put it plainly: We are fucked. We are being thrust along the proverbial Shit’s Creek, not only without a paddle, but without a bloody boat! It is as if we have left the relative comfort and protection of our nice European boyfriend complete with a steady job and proper hairstyle; and thrown ourselves into the power of a man who rides a Harley, busks for a living and wants to die in order to leave a good-looking corpse.
The result of the Brexit referendum made it abundantly clear why ordinary people are generally barred from the conversations and debates which take place within the walls of Westminster deciding our country’s fate. The reason being that a large percentage of the population possess intelligence that is equivocal to that of a doorstop. Perhaps in future the government might carry out some sort of test, in which potential voters have to prove that they have an intellectual capacity which exceeds that of a 12 year- old child.
This is not a slight on the good people of Barnsley, but there did seem to be some very strange ideas floating about the air. On being asked why she voted to leave the safety of the EU one woman said it was because: ‘her grandfather had fought for this country’. A curious, and yet baffling sentiment. I can only assume that she believed that upon leaving Europe, should she chance upon any field in her England she would now find cricket being played to the distant hymn of Jerusalem, the scene would of course be framed in jubilant bunting, with Dickie Bird playing the role of umpire. Another resident stated that leaving Europe was the only way to stop (groan) immigration. Although bizarrely he later said that he didn’t mind other Europeans (aka White people) settling on these shores, it was just people from ‘Africa, Iran and Syria’. So on the whole I think it’s fair to say the the Leave campaigners did a stellar job informing voters on exactly what it means to be part of the EU.
Damn you Boris, you deliberately misguided those who were in greatest need of the EUs protection. Without realising it communities who already suffer at the hands of the wolves named Poverty and deprivation will now have to grapple with a government that no longer has to adhere to checks and balances sent from Brussels. A new government for whom the EU Charter of Fundamental Rights is now nothing more than a footnote in this island’s history. Corbyn you’re no better. Throughout Labour’s half arsed EU Remain campaign, our Jez looked an awful lot like the friend who’d been coerced into partaking of a night out. And even then they’d only said ‘yes’ because there was nothing on Netflix. This at a time when he should have galvanized the Working Class, the disenfranchised and the indifferent. The faults of this referendum have been many, far-reaching and too catastrophic to keep calm and carry on.
One thing is for certain, it is clear we have our best man on the job. Setting out his plan for solving the biggest political and economical shit storm since the Financial Crash of 1987, BoJo imparted these words of reassurance ‘…Britain is a part of Europe-and always will be.’ Well I for one know that I will sleep easier tonight. Johnson has his shoulder firmly pressed to the wheel. Gove grinds the organ, while the monkey dances. Get ready folks, if Johnson does become the boss man, the NHS will become more stretched than a pregnancy belly. Gove is probably cooking up a manual with instructions on how to perform your own angioplasty payed for with Tesco Club Card points.
Now there is nothing left for us to do but pack our things, unscrew the light bulbs and await anxiously the decision on who gets the kids. This is it, according to Michael Jackson. Nothing but the greatest Moonwalk of all time can stem this painful political divorce. David Cameron will now go down in history as the man who sold the world; kind of like an elderly relative who sells the family paintings for a pound at a car boot sale, not realising they are in fact Picasso’s.
We have no choice but to look to the future, and it may yet be less bleak than we imagine. There we will be listening to EBC radio, (English Broadcasting Corporation) miniature St George flags in hand, a sodden Victoria Sponge taking centre stage, our voices straining to the last notes of ‘There’ll always be an England’, all of course in the rain.
Disclaimer: No startling observations were made in this piece.