Having tweeted the above this morning, I felt compelled to write said letter.
Dear Europe.
Sorry about all this. It was a game of chicken with some of
our more gullible electorate and we lost and you know how it is with us upper
class English types – can’t back down. A wager’s a wager and debts have to be
settled. More on that later.
Historically, our island nation has often been on bad terms
with you guys. It was hoped that the
lessons of millennia of conflict and distrust might have been learnt but do you
know how many people read the Daily Mail? I know, right?
Idiots. That’s the only word for it. Don’t tell anyone I
said this but we’ve been made to look like bloody fools. We’ve only ourselves
to blame,
Truth be told, most of us really like Europe, or at least
most of us who’ve actually ventured anywhere other than those ghastly places on
the Costa Del Sol where you can get a proper English breakfast and a pint of
Carling for under a fiver. Well, could. I see the pound plummeting faster than
Boris Johnson’s chances of leading the country and it’s all I can do not to
smile.
Would you take us back? I mean, would you consider it?
Obviously, we’d have to meet covertly at first, like secret lovers at some
impossibly romantic rendezvous. There I go again, peppering this letter with
French words. I’ll have to stop that.
Stick to the mother tongue.
English is a mongrel language and we are a mongrel breed.
Where we got the idea that we are some kind of pure, undiluted, special breed
of man I’ll never know. Last chap who had that sort of numbskull idea was a
failed art student and well, you know the rest.
Farage is a prick, isn’t he? Sorry about him. Typical
self-made oaf. Stick a stale ham in a tweed suit and off they go, crashing
helicopters and screaming the Germans did it.
Still, you won’t be seeing him again.
Us Brits aren’t supposed to do feelings. Stiff upper lip and
all that. It’s rubbish, of course, much like the stuff that Murdoch prints but
there you go. We’re sad to be going but we can’t admit it.
Chances are that we’ll be knocking on the door to come back
soon. The pound is already stood on the white cliffs of Dover, threatening to
jump into La Manche. Any further decline
and we’ll be the new Zimbabwe. How ironic would that be, eh?
Knocking? We’ll be pounding more like. Please save our
precious pound, Frau Merkel! Won’t someone think of our poor orphaned pennies,
Monsieur Macron? You can’t build an economy on jam. You can try to build one on
the missiles that destroy the villages thus causing the waves of refugees we
are running away from, sure. But not on jam. Oh God, we’re going to bring back golliwogs
aren’t we. I’m so sorry.
Don’t cry for me Ireland, Sweden. I doubt they will. Nor Belgium,
Spain or anyone else. Can’t imagine any foreign backpacker will decide to queue
for hours just to visit one of our many thousands of Wetherspoons.
UK. United Kingdom. They don’t even realise the irony of
what we’re doing. A (largely) successful political union of previously warring
neighbours leaving a bigger version of the same thing. It’ll end in tears. But
no apologies.
Please take us back. I’m begging you. I'll pay whatever you ask. We're the Lannisters in this thing, aren't we? And the Lannisters always pay their debts.
Yours
The United Kingdom.
