Outside the Box: Brexiteers all following each other over a cliff

I live on the south coast of England, by the white cliffs. That’s roughly halfway between London and the French coast, were I a seagull.

Outside the Box: Brexiteers all following each other over a cliff

I live on the south coast of England, by the white cliffs. That’s roughly halfway between London and the French coast, were I a seagull. (I’m not, but as an Irish citizen with an Irish passport, I can still move around with as much ease, no matter what those eejits in Downing Street end up doing.)

Anyway, on the white cliffs the other day, several hundred people gathered, holding mirrors to flash an SOS to France: Dot dot dot dash dash dash dot dot dot.

A cry for help. People are so fed up with Brexshit, that they are close to flinging themselves off the white cliffs. (Unless they have Irish passports. Did I mention I have one?)

Quite a few more — 6,060,230 — signed the biggest petition in British history, begging the Downing Street eejits to revoke Article 50 and throw it off the cliff; better to hurl the Brexit shitshow into the sea than the conomy, jobs, supply chain, and long-established ethos of live and let live, which has — until Brexit — made England a reasonably reasonable place to co-exist with one’s fellows. The pleading of the six million signatories was debated by six — six — MPs, then rejected. As the New York Times remarked in an op-ed, “The United Kingdom Has Gone Mad.”

That Brexit is officially causing not just politicians, but also residents, to lose the plot — that is, ordinary people, as well as the flag-waving loons in plastic union jack bowler hats — has been confirmed by independent research.

This found that 83% of UK residents are cracking up from Brexit dominating the daily news; 64% are complaining of actual Brexit anxiety; and 84% think the politicians blocking the parliamentary S-bend should be collectively shoved off a (white, probably racist) cliff.

On March 29, the day the UK was meant to leave the EU, the crackpot division of the ‘leave’ brigade had originally wanted the date decreed a national holiday, like a Dad’s Army version of the Fourth of July.

Instead, such was the ever-decreasing circle of news cycle — like watching your favourite jewellery being sucked down a big, stupid plughole — that the BBC’s grown-up radio news was interspersing its blow-by-blow Brexshit updates with recordings of birdsong and people reciting William Wordsworth poems in soothing voices: To cool our aching brains; To stop people driving to the coast and hurtling over the edge.

A million people gathered in London, politely protesting. (My Irish passport and I stayed in bed that morning, marinating in a warm glow of schadenfreude.) And still, those in power cling on, blaming the EU for the fallout of their own vicious austerity cuts, the way Trump blames Mexico.

If George Orwell and Franz Kafka were locked in a room and drip fed bad acid, they couldn’t make this shit up. Meanwhile, in Ireland, Taoiseach Leo Varadkar wrote Kylie a fan letter on government-headed paper. Which is, frankly, adorable. Just adorable.

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