I think my favorite thing about Brexit is that Jacob Rees-Mogg, Walter the Softy from the Beano in human form, said there can’t be a second referendum because this time people know too much about it all this time around. And, presumably, no amount of painted buses, clueless voters and racist divs would swing it.
I saw someone compare Brexit to an office email about a night out. Two restaurants, a poll. Just over half the office votes for one restaurant. But before the date of the meal you find out that restaurant makes everything from human shit. And you can’t have another vote, no matter how many may protest, because the majority has spoken.
But then maybe my favourite bit about Brexit is that our own copy if Trump (but done with the brightness turned up, visually not intellectually) is shutting parliament so no-one can stop his plans. Like a spoiled child.
Or maybe it’s the bit about calling a General Election just before Brexit if he doesn’t get his way, You know, like a spoiled child.
The Government – or certain members of it at least – are like the kids you find having a tantrum in the middle of supermarket aisles, spreadeagled on the floor banging their fists because they wanted crisps and their parental unit bought grapes.
And then you’ve got Rees-Mogg laid out on a bench in the House of Commons like a creepy, slimy draft excluder. Showing all the maturity of something that has no maturity at all. In fact a negative amount of maturity.
But then he wants out of the EU because he’s got offshore accounts that a new EU law will slap a tax on. Bugger the fact that people couldn’t get medicine, EU funded research grants would be in jeopardy and we’d be lucky to exchange the pound for a handful of dirt, as long as that creepy fucker can around in his money like Mira Sorvino in American Beauty everything’s fine.
We’re absolutely fucked.