For two and a half years, what were supposed to be calm and constructive discussions on the nature of the Withdrawal Agreement between the UK and the EU, have instead been comprised of a Tory party slowly lining up a series of metaphorical barrels under these isles. Explosive barrels filled with lies and populism, mixed in with the uniquely flammable nature of English exceptionalism, ready to blow up once the Brexit No Deal match is struck.
This has been a national meltdown, due to the complete ineptitude of the Westminster’s system, and the tethering constraints of its archaic procedures. Everyone says that we must find a sensible approach, but everyone’s sensible approach looks like complete lunacy to the people sitting on either side of them. And if the smaller parties in the UK Parliament have managed to stay united, the shock-waves produced by the earthquakes of Tory and Labour division haven’t been without effect.
These are the worst of times, and these are the worst of times – Dickens was wrong
There’s a lot of irony, to Brexit. Not least the fact that it is a creature spawned from the arcane rituals of British Nationalism. What we are hearing is one last scream of a dying Empire, wanting to celebrate its supposed superiority with defying arrogance and lack of self-awareness. But that is the creature that exists in the dark, for when we look at it under the glaring light of rational thought, what we see is a pathetic little critter, crawling on its last days, gasping for attention. Brexit is a pitiful bogeyman at best, and now the world is pointing and laughing – when it’s not throwing its hands in the air, despairing at the stupidity of a neighbour tearing itself apart, risking the destruction of the entire suburb in the process.
In a way, Brexiteers wanted to make Britain Great Again, like the special edition of Irn Bru bottle that America elected for President. And they did. The United Kingdom has become the centre of the world once more – but now it is no longer the one poking fun at everyone else’s supposed inferiority. No, far from that. The world has become a reality show, and Brexit Britain fills the prime time spot. This is a show meant to be bad, filled with incredibly stupid people, so that everyone else watching can feel a bit better about themselves. Britain has become The Great Joke.
What does the future hold?
At this point, fortune-tellers would be better trusted at predicting the future than any British journalist. Some pretend like they know exactly what is happening, but the truth is that no one really does. The only thing clear, right now, is that there’s no clarity whatsoever.
By the time you end up reading this post, the first paragraph might have been made obsolete. You may go back to your Twitter feed to discover that Brexit has been cancelled, or open a trusted news website and find out that the EU has rolled out emergency plans and No Deal is imminent.
Whatever happens, Brexit has been like a fire, bringing with it panic, fear, and much sweating. But, after the smoke has cleared, and we see the wreck of what’s been left behind, we can rest assured that the putrid skeleton of the institutions in this country will be exposed for all to see. Westminster is not fit for England’s purpose, much less any of the other three nations. May Brexit euthanise it, and replace it with a democratic system fit for the twenty-first century.
So, let the fire of Brexit purge away the toxicity of this Union, and let England set out to fill whatever destiny its people democratically demand. Let Scotland retake its rightful place as a sovereign, outward-looking, European nation. Let Ireland heal the last of its open wounds and accept that, it doesn’t matter if you’re a Protestant, or a Catholic: you’re Irish. And may Wales realise that a country’s size should have no bearing on the boundless possibilities of a future where its people have the first and last say, not their next-door tenants.
Maybe we’ve been looking at Brexit all wrong. Maybe, this was just a ceremonial celebration of the 312 years of Union, and a way of putting it out of its misery with a last show of political fireworks. Boom. Flash. Rejoice!
Maybe. Maybe everything will turn out fine. Because, the alternative, in which we all sink together in a mutually destructive Union where every nation’s aspiration is smashed under the heel of Westminster’s inequality, is one which I can’t even dread to contemplate.