Tag Archives: theresa may

The Tory Leadership Race – A Tale of How We’re Utterly Screwed

Well, she’s gone.

It’s hardly a surprise. Theresa May’s eventual demise had been as inevitable as Piers Morgan feigning indignation – yet somehow more excruciating. Observing the sorry sight of Theresa May limping through these past few months, her power ever dwindling and the already dubious proclamations becoming increasingly laughable, was like having a front row seat at the world’s most soul destroying pantomime.

On and on she went, lurching from disaster to outright calamity with each parliamentary speech being underpinned by a cacophony of derisive laughter. Every single time she wandered in front of the lectern, half of you would be expecting a resignation while the remaining half would be hoping for one.

Until it finally came. The end of Theresa May’s miserable reign, signed off with an actual whimper.

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I’d say “missing you already”, but that would be a massive lie.

While it’s true that May will be missed by approximately nobody, her farewell monologue providing a timely reminder of the self delusion that plagued her leadership as she rattled off a list of achievements which presumably belonged to a different Prime Minister, it would be the apex of folly to say we’re over the worst.

Far from it.

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Please pass on my deepest sympathies to your tentative hopes for a bright future.

Yes, that’s right. That unrelenting wave of optimism eroding misery which has suddenly engulfed you is another Tory leadership contest – and, if that wasn’t a cause for despair in of itself, the spectre of Brexit is still looming large, insidiously seeping into the minds of prospective candidates and raising the insanity level by a factor of sixteen.

Not to say that sanity is ever with the Tories in abundance. Indeed, the roll call of aspirants reads like a ‘Who’s who’ of the most duplicitous, incompetent and ideologically demented politicians of the past three years. It speaks cacophonous volumes that, when scanning the list of hopefuls, you’re left concluding Jeremy Hunt is one of the more palatable options. Sure, he left the NHS on life support and can’t remember the nationality of his own wife, but at least he can probably count to ten.

To say that the pool of talent amongst the front runners is meagre doesn’t really do justice to the cold dread that immediately overwhelms your senses as the image of them bumbling through the doors of Number 10 flashes through your mind. We’re not simply talking your garden variety of hapless jobsworth here – we’re talking Esther McVey.

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Potentially your future Prime Minister there, having absolutely no issue with parents picking which parts of the curriculum their children should undertake based on nothing but their own bigotry.

Chances are your mind will immediately revert to what, on the face of it, is a rational defence mechanism. “But that’s just Esther McVey.” you’ll protest. “As if that terminal dimwit will ever garner enough support to be Prime Minister!”

In a less asinine period, this would be a credible safety net. Esther McVey couldn’t be trusted to babysit a shoe, let alone run a nation that’s fractured right down the middle and about to topple into the abyss (which incidentally, is an outcome Esther is inexplicably pushing for). Yet, as improbable as a McVey premiership may indeed be, all bets are off when you catch a glimpse of the preposterously bequiffed new potato leading the pack:

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There is no God.

Ah yes – Boris Johnson. I remember him. A man so unremittingly focused on his self imposed destiny of becoming our Prime Minister, he forgot to pick up a few things along the way. You know – integrity, moral fibre, the respect of anyone who has had the misfortune of working with him? All the basics that make up a functional member of the human race really. A man so lacking in sincerity that even Grima Wormtongue is a more trustworthy source on matters of reality, the very fact that Prime Minister Boris Johnson could even be a distant possibility, let alone a probable inevitability is the sign of a country that has lost it’s collective mind.

Speaking of a total loss of critical faculties, the entire leadership race has fast turned into a painfully unhinged race to the bottom. Granted we already knew the likes of Dominic Raab (a man so notably inept that he only recently noticed Britain is an island) were ideologically entrenched beyond repair – but Brexit has poisoned the well to such an alarming degree that comparatively credible candidates are left scrambling in the haze, desperately grasping at whatever half baked solution comes within touching distance of their fingers.

People like the curiously affable Rory Stewart are reasonable enough to know that Brexit is going to leave us a few million light years from utopia and, in a less ludicrous time, would likely make a someway decent Prime Minister. But alas, unbridled insanity with a side order of blind faith is the order of the day and the rest of the menu neglects to cater for anyone with an allergy to self immolation – so poor old Rory is forced to tentatively set foot into the rabbit hole should he wish to have any chance of winning.

Even more troubling, for many of the Tory membership Stewart’s desperate pragmatism doesn’t go anywhere near far enough. Cutting off just one foot simply won’t do if you wish to ingratiate yourself with the disconcertingly sizeable manic wing of the party. If you want to win favour upon this key battlefield, you’ll need to really believe in Brexit and amputate every extremity below the torso; lest you be accused of talking our great nation down.

In terms of likely winners, this realistically leaves us with anybody who tows the line of “No deal is better than no Brexit” – sincerely or otherwise. So what we’re left with is a split between people credulous enough to believe completely cutting ties with the largest trading bloc on the planet is somehow a good idea, and cynical careerists who put personal advancement in front of the prosperity of a nation they claim to serve.

All in all, it’s paints a rather murky picture in terms of a hopeful future. While Britain has always had its problems, many of which are still prevalent to this day, the unceremonious dump Brexit curled out upon the canvas has served to deepen these woes further – cementing us in an especially putrid stasis, each individual citizen stranded waist deep in the mire.

Tossing rationality to one side, part of me finds itself almost yearning for Boris Johnson to become Prime Minister. After all, he was the figurehead of Leave. He was the one who stood on a message of “hope” and that Brexit was the key for a glorious future. A cry which has long since echoed around the hard line echo chambers is that, if a Brexiteer had been at the helm, everything would have been fine – so why not just let them have what they want, while the rest of us sit back and watch the bullshit fuelled prosperity train fail to leave the first station?

In many respects, it would be somewhat satisfying to watch the charlatans flounder at every turn as their previous bluster recedes to a perplexed murmur. At least until the rational part of my brain suddenly taps me on the shoulder and offers the timely reminder that I still have to live here.

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Brexit – A 1,000 Day Progress Report

Can you believe it’s been 1,000 days since we voted for Brexit? You know, that bold act of defiance against the nefarious establishment, where the disenfranchised majority seized back control of our laws, money and borders via a long awaited uprising of accountable democracy?

Given it was sold as a monumental moment of unprecedented triumph, you’d think the following journey would be one steeped in glory – as our swashbuckling nation forged its own path in this brave new world of nationalistic pride and a mandatory five portions of sovereignty per day for all citizens.

However, as with all decisions made at the behest of a spurious propaganda campaign, the cold, bitter reality rarely matches up with the fanciful proclamations of a tweed clad monstrosity. Which probably goes some way to explaining as to why, rather than basking in the majesty of a prosperous utopia as Jean-Claude Juncker hand waxes our Aston Martin, we’re currently staggering around in a confused stupor, drunk on the fumes of cognitive dissonance which have forever engulfed the Brexit debate and left us stumbling haphazardly along the edge of the precipice.

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In a rare off script moment, Michael Gove and Boris Johnson apparently realise just what their callous political gamesmanship has unleashed upon the country.

The miserable tale behind this excruciatingly overlong act of unnecessary national suicide is as grim as it is unfathomable, with staggering complacency and stupefying incompetence punctuating every plot point – each leaving a distinct yet indelible stain upon Britain’s global reputation.

The naivety was with us right from Brexit’s inception. David Cameron, thinking he could somehow resolve decades of Tory infighting, decided to call a referendum on our EU membership. Risky strategy, especially considering how our involvement in the union had granted Britain a powerful voice in the world of global diplomacy; but not to worry – Remain would win so it’d all be fine. At least until Remain didn’t win and suddenly everything fell to pieces. Many suspected that Cameron would now live to regret his folly – only we never really got to find out as, on account of having no actual fallback plan should unexpected failure occur, he promptly fucked off to live out the rest of his days in a shed.

National crisis? Perhaps, but such instances of governmental calamity were mere child’s play when compared with what was to come.

Through a series of bizarre events, within which the proverbial knife in the back became a prevailing motif as close chums Boris Johnson and Michael Gove demonstrated that the real meaning of friendship is only understood by way of brutal betrayal, Theresa May took the helm.

This raised eyebrows as May had backed Remain – which was likely the motivation behind the decision to transmogrify herself into the wretched, cretinous platitude spewing ghoul of farcical intransigence we know today.

“Brexit means Brexit” she proclaimed, apparently oblivious as to the notion of using the very word you’re attempting to define in its own definition being an utterly worthless practice. When understandably pressed for clarity, we were told that Brexit would be “Red, white and blue”, May again failing to appreciate that issues of unprecedented economic complexity can’t be magically solved through the dubious magic of selecting an appropriate colour scheme.

Senseless to the point of being infantile perhaps, but Theresa remained unmoved. Coherence be damned, the people had spoken in 2016 and she had to deliver Brexit – irrespective of whether anyone could actually explain it or not.

So off we went. With an ever befuddled leader and prominent Brexiteers in key cabinet positions, our nation embarked on its journey towards an indescribable destination. Sure there were plenty of pesky naysayers out there, eager to piss on the bonfire of unfounded belief, but what did they know? They were clearly embittered Remainers and their lack of compliance was apparently tantamount to treason, so why should May worry about them? Besides, having kitted herself out with a rucksack stuffed with meaningless slogans and blinkers designed to shield her gaze from a shifting zeitgeist they could easily be ignored.

Unfortunately for Theresa May, the one thing she couldn’t protect herself from was her own crashing ineptitude.

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You know that irksome neighbour who’s continually showing up at your house, but you’re too polite to slam the door in their face?

Starting from a position of parliamentary strength, May’s first masterstroke was to call an election. The plan was to cement her authority, in the process granting Theresa May the image of an inspirational leader the country could unite behind – and it would have been a good plan, were it not for the fact that its success entirely hinged on Theresa May being in any way plausible as an inspirational leader. So it failed and her majority was lost – because she’s Theresa May.

Her cabinet of misfit toys didn’t fare much better. While there was a certain logic in installing David Davis and Boris Johnson in important positions, allowing them to back up their pre-referendum bluster with credible results, the overriding logic regrettably indicated that their innards were comprised entirely of shit and they’d scarper back to sidelines the moment that inevitable shadow of accountability crept too close – which proved to be the case when they scarpered back to the sidelines, allowing them to return to their previous occupation of pretending to have all the answers without any actual power to put them to the test.

The public meanwhile watched on, our minds rife with bemusement and trepidation as this car crash of an administration bumbled ever onward, ploughing head first into one chasm of inescapable reality after another.

Was it really a surprise that the eventual, ramshackle deal May managed to cobble together was a pitiful boondoggle which pleased absolutely noone? Is it any wonder that we’ve arrived at endgame with a lamentable choice between miserable failure or cataclysm failure, teetering at the edge of the no deal abyss with the only celebratory voices being those of the ideologically deranged or disaster capitalists seeking to make a quick buck off their own nation’s demise?

Yet Theresa May remains, detached from the populace and having alienated Parliament, insisting that Brexit remains the only way forward, lest she fail to deliver not only the indescribable, but the impossible.

Well unfortunately for May, she has failed. We’re well past the point where we can delude ourselves into thinking that eventual triumph is but one crafty manoeuvre away.

Though in truth, victory was never on the cards. Brexit has ultimately been a failure right from the very moment it was conceived. Cameron failed to contain it, the Brexiteers failed to explain it and Theresa May failed to deliver it. Now all we have left to look forward to is the indignity of millions of pennies raining from the sky as, one by one, citizens have to reluctantly accept that humiliating failure was the final destination all along.

If only someone had said.

Theresa May and the Dereliction of Humanity

It’s long been observed that there’s something just a little off about Theresa May. No matter how hard she tries, each and every attempt to merge seamlessly into a public setting brings with it an unmistakable stench of the uncanny valley. Whether it’s her inadvertently subversive attempts at dancing, her recent failed bid to decipher the intricate mechanism of a pool cue or her obvious discomfort with any situation in which she’s confronted with a living, breathing member of the human race – there’s something unmistakably inhuman about Mrs May.

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I knew it.

Understandably, at this point it’d be par for the course to launch into the seemingly obligatory ‘Maybot’ routine – unleashing a deluge of quips pertaining to her automaton tendencies and her apparent reluctance to undergo the Voight-Kampff test, but I’ll spare you the tedium.

The jokes have been made, relentlessly so but, as with all spawning points of enduring humour, beneath the wry chuckles there’s much truth to be had.

It’s been quite the roller-coaster ride living under the rule of Theresa May – by which I mean it’s been entirely characterised by terror induced nausea as we lurch from one pitfall to the next with no viable means of escape. While I can’t deny that there’s been the odd moment of light relief, namely the most pitifully inept election campaign in living memory, the experience as a whole has been underpinned by an ever growing sensation of helplessness – as we regrettably bear witness to a would be autocrat treating the nation as mere collateral, as she doggedly carries out her solitary compulsion to cling onto a power which can only be justified in her own delusions.

Then again, she did invent the ‘hostile environment’ as Home Secretary – so what did we really expect?

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All things considered, Anna Soubry probably had a point.

The May approach to leadership has been as obstinate as it has incompetent. While there’s an understandable school of thought that a steely determination to see your aspirations through to completion, remaining unswayed by the naysayers and potential hardships which litter your path to the finish line provides grounds for justifiable admiration, it pales in the reverence stakes when compared directly to the ability to both recognise and accept obvious realities. If your head is to be in the clouds, make sure your feet are firmly rooted on the ground – and May’s tootsies are stationed so far beyond the stratosphere that the millions of citizens below aren’t even visible, let alone a consideration.

Such ghoulish detachment to the consequences of her actions may seem unfathomable to anyone with a functional sense of empathy, looking upon callously negligent acts such as reducing human lives to poker chips and attempting to bypass the parliamentary process altogether with appropriate levels of horror.

Though if your envisioned route out of this nightmare is a successful appeal to her better nature, creating a storybook ending in which Theresa finally touches base with the concept of empathetic thought before striding joyously over the horizon to teach the world to sing, you’re likely to be bitterly disappointed.

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In fairness she did try to teach the world to dance, but it didn’t really catch on.

May’s premiership has never really been about Brexit, despite it being set to make up the huge bulk of her ministerial epitaph. Her primary motivation has never been guided by a steadfast belief in delivering a glorious Brexit, that was merely a circumstantial necessity should she wish to hold onto what she cherishes the most – power. At any cost.

Curiously enough, Leave propaganda spivs have it somewhat correct when they argue that May is a Remainer in Brexiteer’s clothing. She is – though they’re mistaken in their assertion that she’s trying to bring the whole sorry caper down from the inside. Following the Brexit doctrine was a requirement for an incoming Prime Minister’s survival, such was the nature of the zeitgeist.

Trouble is, when the criteria for success was limited to such a narrow precept, May’s inclination to be brutally dogmatic came to the fore. All sense of diplomacy vanished into the ether, with the capacity to be rational and whatever dwindling morsel of empathy she may have once possessed going with it.

All that remains now is, in effect, an intransigent husk of a leader. Shorn of reason and flexibility of thought, with a laughable repertoire of pre-programmed slogans being the all purpose response to any line of inquiry – Theresa May has indeed become the very essence of the unfeeling automaton many have jokingly proclaimed her to be.

Just a shame her solitary directive reads “Brexit means Brexit”, leaving the rest of us doomed to be swept along in her mission to salvage whatever authority she can – by securing a victory that was never on the table to begin with.

Jacob Rees-Mogg and the Apex of Failure

I’ve been rather out the loop this week. Nothing too exciting I’m afraid. I’ve not been gallivanting off around the globe lion taming in the Sahara desert or anything – just a simple house move. That said, it’s been rather nice to find myself cut adrift from the miserable malaise that has enveloped the country. Rather than being beaten over the head with yet more grisly tales of unfathomable governmental incompetence upon first waking up in the morning, instead I’ve almost been in a period of hibernation – cocooning myself in a comfortingly bland reality defined by endless shopping trips and the eternal struggle of flat-pack furniture.

So what did I miss? Well, let’s see – Theresa May managed to maintain her frankly peerless record of alienating huge swathes of the country whenever she opens her mouth in public, her EU withdrawal agreement remains about as popular as an e-coli outbreak on a transatlantic flight and, having failed to schmooze prominent git Michael Gove into becoming Brexit Secretary, she was forced to employ a man so unknown and inconsequential that a whole thirty minutes spent staring at himself in the mirror wouldn’t spark the faintest glimmer of recognition.

Same shit, different day basically.

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John Doe was apparently unavailable.

That said, there was something new which managed to penetrate through the suffocating smog of unbridled misery and offer up the faintest whiff of light relief.

Of course I speak of the glorious, almost life affirming failure of Jacob Rees-Mogg, as the pompous relic found himself at the helm of a ship he’d spent two years constructing, only to find it sinking twenty seconds after leaving port with only a crew that Captain Pugwash would look upon derisively for company.

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If you thought this panel was vivacious and full of life, you should check out your local morgue.

It’s been a curious experience following the adventures of Jacob Rees-Mogg these past two years. Not only has he had a surprising amount of exposure for an ostensible back-bencher, his ghoulishly anachronistic presence haunting our screens on a near daily basis, his ultimate motives have long since been visible from the far side of Jupiter – to take out Theresa May by any means necessary.

In effect this puts him at the exact same end of the duplicity spectrum as Boris Johnson, only instead of masking his deceit with preposterous buffoonery, he opts for a veneer of quaint Edwardian absurdity – schmoozing his way through each public appearance with laser guided manners, attempts at Latin which are as befuddling as they are gratuitous, both of which ultimately create such a charade of incongruity that it’s often easy to forget that what he’s proposing isn’t just patently ridiculous, but often reprehensible. 

You’d think that such transparent attempts at subterfuge would lead to Jacob being subjected to the most vociferous scrutiny imaginable from media outlets but, staggeringly, the kid gloves are rarely removed in his presence – as though interviewers are so bewildered by his presumed majesty they refrain from incisive interrogation in fear of committing an archaic yet treasonous faux pas.

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If you’ve ever spotted this man down your local job centre, you were probably in the midst of a horrific acid trip.

This has always struck me as somewhat of a missed opportunity. Spit polished foibles and baffling colloquialisms aside, the Mogglodyte has a tendency to come unstuck when pitted against someone with an actual understanding of the issues that Jacob attempts to sell himself as an authority on.

Pontificating on matters he doesn’t really understand isn’t the only similarity our chronologically displaced friend shares with Boris either. Take a look at this often overlooked artefact of political curiosity in which, during the Tory leadership scramble of 2016 after Dave dropped a dookie upon the bed-sheets and scarpered before changing the linen, self appointed man of honour Jacob Rees-Mogg changes allegiances three times as the wind repeatedly shifted direction – rather ironically becoming a “total convert” to his current foe, one Theresa May.

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No words are required – this really does speak for itself.

Still, even though the masquerade was arguably one of political necessity, it was about as convincing a display as David Cameron at Villa Park. Jacob’s coat was always set for turning and, sure enough, he and his cronies at the European Research Group (the biggest misnomer since the Nazis claimed to be socialists) hatched their nefarious scheme to undermine their dear leader at every conceivable turn – and, if you bought into the narrative spun by the oh so complaint media perpetually doffing their cap in awe, it became a presumed inevitability that their coup would succeed.

At least until it didn’t.

In light of their spectacular defeat in their bid to topple an unfathomably unpopular Prime Minister, Jacob has found himself comparatively absent from the spotlight – as though those who exaggerated his influence (and indeed, competence) were acutely aware that they’d once again fallen victim to a chancer who failed to bring any amount of substance to go with his admittedly idiosyncratic style, and had subsequently cast him back into the shadows, hoping that nobody noticed their folly.

In short, the entire circus crafted around Rees-Mogg, which the media were only happy to exacerbate, amounted to a colossal waste of everyone’s time in which nothing was accomplished – time being a commodity we’ve never really had.

The failure of Jacob Rees-Mogg might well present a wry sense of amusement to those of us who’ve found his omnipresence insufferably obnoxious, but when all’s said and done the real dereliction of duty once again lies with the media outlets, whose entire raison d’etre is ostensibly to inform the great unwashed.

Whilst it’s now painfully obvious that the emperor never had any clothes, with even a mere morsel of journalistic diligence it wouldn’t have taken over two years to spot his gonads hanging sullenly in the open air while he insisted that the solutions were in his other jacket.

Dominic Raab and Theresa’s Cabinet of Misfit Toys

Anyone watch Peston last night? I sure did, though I possess nothing but envy towards you if it happened to have passed you by. Far from a relatively jovial evening of breezy political discussion with the always endearing Robert Peston, the experience quickly became akin to having a cheese grater forcibly scraped across your brain. This was largely thanks to the innately insufferable Nadine Dorries who, despite being ever indignant towards people questioning her intelligence, seemingly struggles with the relatively simple concept of not responding to questions that were asked of someone else.

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If you value your sanity, it’d be best you avoid watching on catch-up. Trust me.

Though to be fair to her, I can understand why she was eager to pontificate. The only card Dorries and her ilk have to play is to endlessly bemoan a perceived problem they don’t have any real solutions to – and with Theresa May finally having produced a draft of the EU Withdrawal Agreement, it gave her the perfect opportunity to express her self-righteous indignation while keeping the empty vacuum behind her eyes conveniently obscured underneath a veil of distraction.

Indeed, today’s inevitable ministerial resignations only serve as testament to such an approach not only being a prevalent tactic, but also one which has poisoned our parliamentary system, setting in a seemingly irreversible rot which precipitated today’s collapse.

There’s already been resignations aplenty, each one undertaken under the pretence of “principle” and accompanied with the sort of bitter sloganeering usually found in one of Leave.EU’s pathetic morsels of wretched propaganda.

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See? Right at home.

A significant portion of the resignees you’re unlikely to have heard too much of, having largely spent their cabinet career skulking in the shadows, periodically emerging with the occasional boneheaded, pro-Brexit soundbite or filling in if the government required a last minute stooge to suffer an avalanche of derision courtesy of the Question Time audience.

However there are two rather prominent Cabinet ministers who’ve also handed in their notice, though their prominence has only really been achieved by way of abject incompetence.

Obviously I speak of Esther McVey and, of course, Dominic Raab – a man who was ostensibly appointed our Brexit secretary in an move which can only be described as an act of sheer defiance against logic itself.

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I’d love to say I’m sorry to see them go – but that would be a lie. A massive lie.

The resignation of McVey was expected and nobody really seems the least bit disappointed to see her go. The only quibble anyone could really have with such a pathetically inept minister finally pissing off is that she’s managed to fashion her own exit; resigning over the supposed Brexit “betrayal” with assumed honour hardly befitting of someone who’s heaped untold amounts of misery upon the most destitute and desperate by way of Universal Credit.

As morally repulsive as McVey’s reign of ruination may have been however, she is but a mere pretender when compared to the dishonourable absurdity of Dominic Raab, our erstwhile Brexit Secretary.

Raab is a rather strange character, paradoxically bearing the demeanour of a lost and frightened child while sporting the receding hairline of a middle aged man. Though these are merely cheap shots at what is ultimately immaterial. To let a man of such callous ineptitude escape with a bit of shallow aesthetical ribbing would be letting him off far too lightly.

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Looks like young Dominic has been summoned into the headmaster’s office again.

It’s fair to say that not much was expected of Raab when he suddenly found himself in the spotlight as our nation’s Brexit Secretary. Our first attempt at employing someone with a semblance of nous had been an unmitigated disaster – and he didn’t even get fired; he himself having initially started the trend of running away the moment accountability drew near. So if he was shit, what could you really expect from his substitute?

Raab did indeed exceed expectations, though only by virtue of somehow making David Davis appear a veritable political titan by way of retrospective comparison.

Never once did Raab inspire confidence. While at times he did at least try to fashion his own style of aggressive negotiations, all attempts fell pitifully flat as each bluff was carried out with the expertise of a poker novice holding his cards backwards. In fact his chronic bumblings became so laughable there were rumours that he was in fact a hard Brexit sleeper agent, surreptitiously sabotaging negotiations from within. Whether there’s any truth in this only Raab himself will ever know, though it’s hard to expect such delicate subterfuge coming from a man who only realised that Britain is an island last week. Resigning in protest against a deal it was his job to cobble together is a move regrettably fitting of such a dubious intellect.

One man who most definitely is looking to collapse May’s Brexit deal (and indeed May’s premiership) however is the chronically displaced time immigrant Jacob Rees-Mogg, finally handing in the letter of no confidence we’ve all known was inevitable for at least a year.

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Having now seen what became of Walter the Softy, you can’t help but feel that perhaps Dennis the Menace had a point.

Naturally he wasn’t courteous enough to enclose a workable alternative, but that’s always been the problem with the hardline Brexiteers. Whether we’re talking about Dorries, Rees-Mogg or now Dominic Raab, their bluster and laughably ramshackle veneer of patriotic integrity is all they have. It’s the easiest thing in the world to rally against a proposal that is universally despised, but do they really have any better ideas? When you consider that, when pressed today, Rees-Mogg suggested Boris Johnson and David Davis as credible replacements for May – two men who have offered nothing but empty rhetoric for over two years – the answer can only be summed up with a definitive “no”.

So where does this leave us? The mere citizens helplessly chained to the roof of this runaway train as it hurtles ever closer to the ravine?

Well let’s see. A government collapsing in on itself? Check. An EU withdrawal agreement over two years in the making about to die on its arse in less than a day? Check. Michael Gove mooted as our next Brexit Secretary? Check fucking mate.

As much as the Mogglodytes clearly revel in boosting their own profile by way of political brinkmanship, it seems to overlook the fact that these are serious and needless risks that we’re taking – and the plebs are along for the ride whether we like it or not. Brexit has always been fuelled by unrefined ideology with feasibility not even reaching the level of a mere afterthought – and the fatal drawbacks of such a short sighted approach are becoming more obvious by the day.

Ultimately these calculated resignations are doomed to be an exercise in futility. They might very well oust May, but the ship will still be sinking with the antagonists short of actual solutions – and if we’re to learn from the lessons of recent history, Raab and the rest of the rats are going to flee before it finally goes down.

It’s just a shame they have to chew so many holes in the hull before they scarper.

Theresa May and the Cavalcade of Calamity

Let’s be honest, Theresa May is far from an inspirational public speaker. Unnervingly stilted and forever crippled by an unmistakable undercurrent of disingenuity, she doesn’t so much kindle the fires of hope within your being, more gradually drowns your helpless soul under an ever rising tide of apathy.

Still, for better or for worse (spoilers: the latter) she is indeed our Prime Minster and, ostensibly, our leader on the world stage. So it was to the consternation of many to see her cutting a decidedly isolated figure amongst EU leaders at the recent summit in Salzburg.

It was almost as though we’d done something to piss them off.

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Should have worn blue really.

Everyone saw it. The nation and indeed the world as a whole looked on aghast as Britain, once a major influence within the European Parliament, reduced to a similar role to that of a evolution textbook in Alabama.

The howls of indignation from the usual suspects of hard Brexit mouthpieces were as excruciatingly illogical as they were predictable. How dare they treat our Prime Minister this way – all the while conveniently side-stepping the fact that they’d spent the past two years accusing May of being a Remain saboteur who was desperate to sell out the nation to her EU masters. Though such transient morality should hardly be a surprise when it comes from those that place feelings firmly ahead of facts – feelings can change in an instant, facts tend to be more rigid.

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Leave.EU here, feigning shock at the very same EU leaders they’d spent years insisting we shouldn’t hang around with not being especially keen on hanging around with us themselves.

Breathtaking hypocrisy aside, it seemed like an apparent eternity of ritual humiliation had taken its toll on poor Mrs May. As if being harangued at home by those who wish to replace her with a bumbling yet sinister Etonian new potato wasn’t bad enough, her cherished Chequers proposal (I’ll stop short of calling it a coherent plan) had suffered an inevitable rejection on account of it being entirely unworkable.

An understandable quibble perhaps, but it certainly proved to be the straw that broke Theresa’s back. So much so that, upon her arrival back on our shores, she felt compelled to take to the stage and deliver an unexpected statement – albeit after power issues at Number 10 caused a delay in a not at all metaphorical blooper brought about by sheer happenstance.

What happened next had to be seen to be believed – and even then it’s likely to mistake it for some sort of horrendous, narcotic induced hallucination.

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Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned – except not really in this case.

It really was a sight to behold – almost a performance piece of denialism straight out of the uncanny valley. It’s fair to say that there was somewhat more vigour in this speech than the usual flat-line; as if the recent rebuff had finally ignited a flicker of emotion within the first replicant to ever hold high government office. However actually managing to win the attention of your audience does come with the odd potential pitfall – they’ll actually be listening to the words you’re saying.

The delivery may have been marginally more forthright, but the content was ultimately the same formulaic, heavily rehearsed piffle that we’ve heard a billion times before; yet here she was, repeating her incredibly dubious dogma as though the added semblance of gusto will somehow drag it kicking and screaming into the realms of plausible reality. Unfortunately, as our self imposed deadline grows ever closer with time fast trickling away, trotting out unfounded assertions and attempting to sling the burden of culpability over to the EU’s side of the court isn’t terribly useful – unless your objective is to look like a demented fantasist and crash your own national currency.

poundfalling
If you thought that was bad, wait until her speech at the Tory Party Conference causes the Sun to explode.

Granted not everyone looked upon it as an embarrassing failure – the Daily Express referred to it as her “finest hour”, perhaps unwittingly offering a tacit admission as to how low the bar of acceptability has really sunk when it comes to May’s time in office. The Sun also offered us this typically ludicrous front page, which clearly won’t be looked back upon in years to come as the very apex of nationalistic stupidity.

upeurs
Geri Halliwell wore it better.

As for myself, well it left me feeling rather despondent. Perhaps I should be used to such a sensation by now but we really are approaching the end game. Seeing our nation’s attempts at international diplomacy still marooned in the jingoistic sloganeering stage is just further confirmation that absolutely no progress has been made since the UK voted to leave. It’s become almost immaterial as to whether the lazy attempts at PR wash with the public anymore, it’s clear by this point it’s all May and her government really have – so that’s all we’re ever going to get.

It’s this state of perpetual impasse that reveals the inherent irony which has plagued Brexit from the very beginning. While initially heralded as a bid to “take back control”, achieve true independence and show the world what we as a nation are capable of, in actuality it’s been a sorry procession of blunders, eternally undermined by the lack of any clear objective; all the while maintaining a stubborn insistence that the endless cavalcade of calamity is somebody else’s fault – namely the European Union.

Which leads onto perhaps the most delicious irony of all. Hidden away amongst the more familiar soundbites in May’s speech was a minor yet oh so telling new addition – frustration that the EU haven’t provided a counter proposal to soothe the headaches exclusive to the United Kingdom.

For all Theresa’s attempts at posturing and playing hardball, it’ll all be for nought. The only thing Donald Tusk will see is a desperate British Prime Minister, waiting in vain for the EU to solve a Brexit conundrum entirely of the UK’s own making.

Open Letter to Theresa May – A somewhat disgruntled response

Hello Prime Minister,

We’ve never met. In fact, we’re unlikely ever to do so – I’m merely one of those British citizens you were curiously reluctant to meet back in 2017, avoiding us with the same steadfast caution normally associated with an outbreak of the norovirus. To you I’m little more than an irrelevance, ultimately offering you nothing beyond a cat in hell’s chance of periodically lending my solitary vote to your party.

However I couldn’t help but notice your article in The Telegraph yesterday. Given how your tenure as Prime Minister has been almost entirely characterised by a rather alarming disinclination to engage with those your purport to represent, it’s fair to say my interest was piqued. Having witnessed many previous attempts at addressing your people, your stage presence laced with insincerity and a cold streak that sets off every Voight-Kampff machine within a ten mile radius, I can’t deny I was rather interested to see what your smarts could come up with when limited to the relative safe-haven of print media – a medium in which your many foibles and staggering disingenuity should arguably be less of a crutch with the gaze of a nation no longer transfixed directly upon you.

So I had a read. After all, as a member of our nation’s electorate it was essentially addressed to the likes of me – albeit indirectly. Nevertheless, despite inspiration being a term that has never previously been associated with yourself, I’m forced to admit that, in this case, your words did indeed inspire a reaction within me.

Regrettably, said reaction was one of unbridled rage which left me feeling obligated to respond – just who the hell do you think you’re talking to?

I can only presume that the thought process behind your lamentable screed was one of empty placation. As reclusive as you evidently are, it can’t have escaped your attention that a feeling of chronic consternation has long since enshrouded the populace you serve. Each and every day we continue our ungainly stumble towards the Brexit precipice, each step accompanied by a grim yet inevitable dose of reality urging us to reconsider. People are understandably worried and not just for themselves. They’re worried about their families, their friends and, perhaps most of all, what a Brexit you’ve routinely failed to define will actually do to their country as the last moments of the 29th March 2019 finally trickle away.

And this was the best you come up with? The same empty and diversionary platitudes you wretched out over two years ago? While it’s true that the political class has always held the cognitive capacity of the proletariat in a perpetual state of withering contempt, to fob off legitimately concerned citizens with such formulaic piffle is but further testament to the achingly apparent disdain you clearly possess for our collective intelligence. Such a verdict may indeed seem hasty, but the only alternative I’m able to fathom is that your mind could simply be lost within a haze of impenetrable delusion – which once again is a perception that brings little in the way of comfort.

Now I’m not the smartest of cookies, nor am I the sharpest tool in the drawer by any means – which is why I’ll leave the finer points of your waffle to those who would easily best me in a battle of political acumen. That said, I do still possess working eyes, ears and a modest yet functional ability to interpret what’s going on around me – and, even with this limited arsenal of intellectual weaponry, I’m able to decipher as to when events are going horrifically awry. It doesn’t take a genius to understand that a fifth of EU doctors preparing to leave our already crippled NHS isn’t exactly a cause for celebration. You don’t have to be Stephen Hawking to realise that our continued economic decline most likely isn’t an unfortunate coincidence. It also isn’t the most profound of insights to determine that our own government making plans to stockpile food and medicine is an alarming symptom of a nation preparing for capitulation.

Yet you, our nation’s Prime Minister, are not only happy to exhibit such breathtaking hubris as to sweep the warnings of experts (who are infinitely smarter and more experienced in such matters than yourself, I hasten to add) under the carpet, you also demonstrate a callous disregard for the lives and well-being of the millions trapped under your pitiful stewardship – a duty of care that has been neglected to the point whereby you deny them the chance to regain some sense of control over a destiny you clearly don’t care about.

Putting your obvious incompetence to one side, such a reckless and stubborn commitment to a jingoistic fantasy can only be interpreted as the actions of a demagogue acting purely in their own self interest. We’ve all found ourselves bemused onlookers to the laughable spectacle of the Conservative Party imploding under the weight of its own ideological imbalances – and staving off what is at this point now an inevitable collapse seems to be your only desire. After all us mere plebs can only vote against you every five years and without an election on the horizon our concerns are of no interest to you – hence your risible, half-hearted and sporadic attempts to placate us.

You ask us to trust you, yet you fill your cabinet with liars. You say you’ll deliver a “bold and exciting” future for our country outside the European Union, yet can only back this up with vague and wholly dubious proclamations. You say you will offer strong and stable leadership, yet you cannot answer even the simplest and most dichotomous of questions. With this in mind, it’s perhaps rather obvious as to why you’re against giving the public a final say on Brexit – for there is little else which could possibly provide such a damning indictment on the deplorable state of your eternally regrettable tenure as Prime Minister.

Don’t worry though – when all’s said and done you’ll be fine. Being the Prime Minister undoubtedly pays well and you’ll be able to utilise such an employment history to accrue further unmerited income for the rest of your days. I’m afraid to say that’ll be no help to the rest of us however. Us normal folk will still be toiling away and desperately attempting to make ends meet from one unstable pay-cheque to the next – only now we’ll be further hamstrung by the crumbling economy of a once prosperous nation; fully perpetuated by your protection of the very same dogmatic careerists who set this sorry pageant into motion in the first place.

Not that you’ll care though. Why break the habit of a lifetime?