Thursday, 24 August 2017

A Letter For Europe

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.


The United Kingdom.





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