Happy Unbrexit Day

This piece contains foul language. If you’re a child, step away now. If you disapprove of swearing, don’t read it and CERTAINLY don’t listen to the audio version. And now you’ve been warned, please don’t complain.

Today is UnBrexit Day and instead of leaving the EU to enjoy sunlit uplands, the easiest trade deals in human history and the bluest of superblueplusplusplus passports, we’re being treated to the ejaculatory skiffle of the Brexit Funtime Band.

Boris Johnson, the most politically incontinent man in history. The is-he-isn’t-he leadership contender and sentient haystack who terrifyingly, could one day be prime minister. Sadly for his fans though, his iron-clad views melt to nothing under the thermals of Prime Minsterial resignation winds.

Michael Gove, the plum who you get the feeling tells his stripped-to-the-waist reflection that he’s a WINNER and he’s GOT THIS and he’s NOT going to shit himself on live television NO WAY.

Dominic Raab, dodging the house-master’s questions like a defiant sixth former caught cheating. Look, the only reason I’m in this mess is because YOU made the exam so hard, you mofo.

Mark Francois – surely Gareth from The Office’s spirit animal – that giant of the military, with all his insecurities hanging out like bowels on a battlefield, blinking his way through TV interviews selling himself as the Brexit roustabout. The tough-boy who won’t be bought, won’t be bullied and one day if he’s lucky might get asked for a playdate round at Jacob’s.

Jacob Rees-Mogg – the haunted hatstand. The man who somehow really reminds me of Clippy, the Microsoft animated paperclip that used to patronisingly impinge on our prose to offer helpful suggestions. You appear to be writing a suicide note for the United Kingdom’s economy, would you like some help with that? Now we have Jacob’s bored patrician drawl inferring we know nothing, have learned nothing and he’ll be quids in anyway cos he’ll fuck off to Ireland to cuddle all the hedge-funds he’s squirrelled away over there, safe from the Brexit financial shitstorm he’s helped cause.

Nigel Farridge (yes I know you should pronounce if Farage, don’t @ me) the berk in a wax jacket looking like a German spy pretending to look really really British. The frog-mouthed pillock who as we speak is pretending to march the length of the land to protest against the travesty of our country not being quite shit enough for Nigel’s liking yet, his gizzard ballooning with bigotry as he spews yet more blokey beery bollocks.

There are others in this merry band. I can’t bring myself to linger on them long. Except to say that Iain Duncan Smith has a really great voiceover voice and he really should’ve considered becoming an accomplished reader of legal disclaimers on local radio advertisements, instead of using his voice as a teller of lies.

And then – ultimately – we have Theresa May. The resilient, dogged hard-worker and Abba shape-thrower extraordinaire. The epitome of British pluck and determination. I don’t see her that way. I see a craven, sly, deceitful politician determined to have her way at all costs. In our house, we call her, amongst other things ‘Come What May.’ A woman who walks like a question mark, offering no answers, listening to nobody but her own hungry ghosts.

As a Remainer, I’ve been called a snowflake, a loser, an unpatriotic bitch, an ugly virtue-signaller, a workshy cunt, a whining dog. The variety of abuse leveled at me has been wide and deep. I was once retweeted by Katie Hopkins and my mentions were suddenly awash with vileness, like a sick sea vomited up its half-eaten boating accidents all over my computer…and then the tide went out again only to return again and again with yet more and more and more of its stinking, bloated horrors. Whether those Twitter users were real or bot is immaterial. I glimpsed the flaccid underbelly of humanity and it was bloody awful.

Brexit has changed our country, I hope only for the short term (and when I say short-term I mean only the next four hundred years). We are stuck in the slow decay of our politics. Like the palace of Westminster, it leaks, houses rats and sinks yet deeper into the river.

This afternoon MPs are voting again on the Meaningful Vote that isn’t really the meaningful vote because it’s been butchered from the Political Declaration, its ribs sliced open and gaping – but it’s a vote that’s very meaningful inasmuchas it could tie us to a relationship we can’t control, don’t understand because we haven’t defined it yet. And this was meant to be the easy part. The REAL hell will be the trade talks.

I don’t believe anyone voted for this.

And I wonder whose tune we’ll have to dance to in future – and by ‘the future’ I mean later this afternoon – eh Theresa?

To read the Brexit blog I wrote when Article 50 was triggered two years ago, click here.

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