Aye, they were most definitely out in force last night in the Commons. Full moon or not, the hooray howlers and self-serving wailers were in maximum frenzy mode as the madness beyond satire which is Brexit continues unabated in the parliament of unacknowledged exceptionalism.
As we all know, as we have all known from the very moment Boris Johnson and the caricature who requires no caricature, Michael Gove, turned slightly pale at the result and scurried into the back of revving up BMW’s (built in Berlin) with expressions on their faces as if to say ‘ they actually fell for it, no, really they did, what are we going to do now?’, yes, we all knew right then that the poor old Europeans are for it.
It was inevitable. The EU are about to get the blame for the more than two and half years of breath-taking incompetence displayed by the British state in regards to securing a future relationship with its closest trading partners of the last half century.
This shambles is not so much about the UK government shooting themselves in the foot, it’s more about them cutting each toe off both feet individually one at a time by mistake whilst trimming their toenails, then chopping what’s left of one of their feet off with an axe whilst trying to shoo a curious midgie away from the open wound where their pinkie toe used tae be. However the propaganda, as is always the case in the British media, tells a different story.
Following the voting on proposed amendments to the Brexit Withdrawal Agreement, or sitting on your hands if you are a Labour MP (what is the point of Labour again?) the Daily Hate Mail is trumpeting Theresa May as the hero of the hour, saving old blighty when the chips were down, the scourge of shifty-eyed garlic smelling foreigners in dark business suits. Their editorial team only just stopping short of calling for a Falklands style Taskforce to be launched from Portsmouth by Saturday to sail up and down the coast of France and Spain shouting ‘Who are you looking at?’ through loudhailers every time they pass a small fishing boat or pleasure craft.
In a wave of national euphoria the right–wing press will have the ‘Strong’ and ‘Stable’ Prime Minister, fresh out of weak and wobbly, carried shoulder high around the playing fields of Eton, to cries of “Bravo old girl” and “ We’re England, can’t they see? Damn their eyes old Totty”, then lifted on to a waiting helicopter of the Queen’s Flight bound for Brussels, where she’ll be met on the tarmac by the band of the Coldstream Guards, playing Colonel Bogey, a squadron of the Household Cavalry in full gleaming breastplates and tassels, and right at the back, the staunch lads and lassies of the Boyne and Billygoat drum majorettes, all of whom will accompany her in triumphant procession to the European Parliament buildings.
As she approaches the front entrance of the imposing den of euro-crats our wondrous leader will see ahead of her scores of Bordeaux soaked red-faced ‘foreign’ diplomats in expensive suits, and the odd Irish man and woman, diving for cover amongst foliage in the surrounding gardens, anxious to escape the powerful wrath of a slumbering Empire roused into action. She will let a slight smile cross her visage at this as she waves to the bewildered crowds of Belgian peasants on both sides of the impressive pageant.
To trumpets blaring, and a rousing chorus of thon dirge about scattering enemies, Marshal Wade and crushing rebellious Scots, she’ll emerge from her open-topped Daimler (designed in Stuttgart) and take the few short steps to the imposing front door of the building. As if by magic the pantomime dressed figure of ‘Black Rod’ (parliamentary traditions must be observed, Order! Order!) will appear by her side, take out his big pointy stick and gie it laldy rat-a-tat upon the polished wooden door.
As the door slides slowly open the modern day Boadicea will see before her the appearing faces of Messrs Barnier, Tusk and Juncker, looking somewhat bored.
‘Ahh gentlemen. I bring you the joyous news that you are held in great affection by Her Majesty’s Government, and Sammy Wilson.
Secondly ,in light of the fact that undisputedly we are British, and you are not, I call upon you to disregard all of the nonsense I previously came to you with, and we both agreed upon, about protecting one of your community member’s from economic strife and a possible return to cross border violent mayhem, and instead agree to this blank piece of paper I’m handing you now. C’mon, what do you say? You can trust us.’
Right there, right then, will be the moment where the Mail’s fantasy will turn sour….
As Michel Barnier thinks to himself ‘I really must get some WD40 into the hinges on that door’, as he firmly closes it behind him.
C’mon Scotland, there is a farce playing out here that you need to walk away from, and soon.