Tuesday 1 November 2016

29. Brexit, Breakfast, Brickshit. WTF?!!

Back in the summer, the British people made a terrible mistake and voted for something called Brexit. I'm absolutely certain it was a mistake, but what that mistake actually entails remains a mystery.

For a kick-off, the powers that be don't seem to know what it is. Mrs Theresa May, she of the sexy kitten heels and stern, dominatrix expression, seems to think it's something called Bregzit, which is a worry as she's apparently in charge of the whole shebang.

Meanwhile, John McDonnel and Andrew Davies both seems to imagine we're debating Breakfast, which is a lovely idea. I would welcome the notion that legislation about Breakfast was embedded in the constitution.

Then again, there appears to be some confusion as the type of Breakfast we're contemplating here. John McDonnel expressed fears that it would be a chaotic Breakfast. Well, I for one can relate to that, and I bet a lot of other people can too. Indeed, I'm full of admiration for those who, on a week day, can still manage a beautifully set table with a choice of the full English, kedgeree or devilled kidneys with a selection of cereals and toast and conserves on the side.  In our house, back when there were three school children to be fed and equipped for the day, and two adults dispatched to work on time, I counted it a good day if everybody had a few cornflakes and a cup of tea inside them before the front door slammed behind us.

I'd chip the cemented cereal off the bowls when I eventually returned home.

I'd fit right in with the chaotic Breakfast idea.

But, apparently, there are two other options. Hard or Soft Breakfast. So what of them?

Hard Breakfast is, well, hard to contemplate. Would it limit us to overdone, charcoaled toast and Weetabix without milk? I'm not too keen on that idea. Or those horrible biscuits that claim to be  breakfast in a bar? Come to think of it, breakfast in an actual bar, with the option of gin on your Crunchycracklypopsios, doesn't sound too bad. But I digress. Hard Breakfast is not for me.

Soft Breakfast, on the other hand, sounds fine. That could incorporate Eggs Florentine (though that sounds a bit foreign, so we're probably not allowed it any more) or porridge, or scrambled eggs with a bit of smoked salmon. I could live with that.

But nobody knows, so we can't relax.

I've a sneaking suspicion that it's nothing to do with any of the above, and we could be in for a very bumpy ride, involving things much more serious that what we sling in front of our unsuspecting families of a morning. I think it might include issues that impinge on our very way of life and will now be dictated by views that I, personally, find abhorrent.

I have nice neighbours. They have always been kind, helpful and, on occasion, very generous towards me. Yet, on the morning after the vote, one of them, expressing her delight in the result, said such vile things about immigrants that I wanted to punch her in her sweet, little churchgoing mouth. It's a nasty, divisive thing is Brexit, and nothing whatever to do with the cheery chaos of the average family breakfast table. Would that it were.

I'm putting all my (undoubtedly misplaced) faith in Article 50. I'm not sure if I've got it right but I'm led to believe that we're not really out of the EU until this mysterious Article has been activated. And who's going to want to trigger it? I'd love to be a fly on the wall at that Cabinet meeting. I can just see them all, gathered round the table at number ten, trying not to catch Theresa's eye when the subject pops up.
'What about you, Boris? I seem to remember you were frightfully keen on it?'
'No! Sorry Tezza, you sexy old thing, but I couldn't possibly. Not with all this this Foreign Secretary muck you've dumped onto my bloody plate. Just no time, you old slapper.'
'Well IDS, couldn't you be a sweetie and do this teensy, weensy favour for your little Prime Ministerikins.'
'Christ no! They all hate me as it is. I don't want to risk making it any worse. Are you mad, woman?'
'Not even if I give your lovely little bald head one of my special strokes, Iain?'
'No!'
'That bloody David! Sneaking off home to Sam and his kitchen suppers and watching Aston Ham and leaving me to shovel up the shit. Bastard!'

If they all refuse, even the man who looks after the boilers at Westminster, we could be saved!

And let's not even get started on the debacle that's taking place across the pond. How that loathsome caricature, Donald Trump, even ended up as a possible replacement for the dignified, cerebral diplomat that is Obama is a mystery to me. Have they all gone mad? Did they put something in the water? It's a travesty, isn't it?

Good old Hills is far from perfect but, honestly people, take a good look at the choice. At least the woman has practised her craft and always been on the side of the underdog, unlike Trump who, it would seem, has crawled out of the slime, with a shit smeared silver spoon in his maw, and reared up to bellow his bile, devoid of any moral code, for the delight the disenfranchised masses. My sympathies are with them, but Trump, with his racist, misogynist ignorance, is not going to be their saviour. And that's the tragedy.

But I do like those Trump Pence signs, because it sounds like the form of currency they'd have in Trumpton, which is quite sweet.



I'm now going to sound like the decrepit throwback that I am, but I entered this world at the end of the last World War, and grew up with all that well intentioned rhetoric about our loathing for Hitler and how we would never let it happen again.

But here we are, watching it, clear eyed. And some of those people who would have spoken in favour of the Kindertransport, which took place back in the nineteen forties to save the lives of Jewish children, will now raise objections to a handful of refugee children being brought over to Britain from the hellish conditions they've been existing (you can't call it living) in, over in Calais. Hitler would be rejoicing. I truly fear his is spirit is alive and well and cavorting about all over the world.

Trump wants to build walls to preserve America for the.......what? American Indians? Obviously not. The USA is a country of immigrants. Just as Britain is a mongrel race. We were invaded so many times our language incorporates bits of every nation's tongue that could possibly get a boat onto one of our many shores. And lots of them did. It's good. It's dynamic. What's the fucking problem?

Let's face it. There's really only one race. It's called the human race. And I apologise if that sounds twee but I mean it and I believe it. If we can't extend a helping hand to our neighbour, when they're having a rough time, then it's a poor look out.

And tomorrow it could all too easily be us. So surely, whilst we're the lucky ones, we can afford to be kind.



Thank you for reading.

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1 comment:

  1. There's another kind of breakfast...a dogs breakfast and that's what the whole Brexit debacle has turned into.
    Great blog by the way! x

    ReplyDelete