I suppose that it’s only right that you shouldn’t celebrate a divorce by chanting it on the streets. Especially when you haven’t yet agreed on who’s going to look after the kids, and who gets the cat that kept on being sick on the Persian rug. And then there’s the delicate question of the financial consequences of the divorce, and the no less important question of which CD actually belongs to you. But life goes on and, after having delicately placed my ex-wife-to-be’s – we’re not technically divorced, but will be going through a transition phase, beginning today – chicken and mash in our newly acquired Zanussi dishwasher, I’m off to see my favourite woman who charges me 300 smackers per hour, for the privilege. But at least, from now on, I’ll be able to make my own decision concerning whether I see my shrink or not. Do note the use of an American word, because I’m getting ready for the future when my country really does go global.
But what about yesterday, when I found myself in Parliament Square with a bendy banana in one hand, and a Duralex glass of Prosecco in the other. I do say, “found myself,” because I have absolutely no recollection of going there willingly. But it was worth it just to be in striking distance of Nigel Farage in his freshly made British green tweed suit, Ann Widdecombe who showed no signs of fatigue following her brisk walk from Brussels to Parliament Square, and that awfully nice man from Wetherspoons. What’s his name again? But although I was within striking distance of the Three Tenors, I didn’t manage to punch them.
They all promised us freedom and independence. And I, like many who voted Brexit, believe them hook line and sinker. How can it be otherwise when, from now on, I’m even freer to do what I already freely did – if you understand what I mean. This is the new improved version of freedom, where I can put hot dinners wherever I want to, and see any woman I like, regardless of the costs. No expenses spared, just as long as we are as far from Brussels as is humanly possible.
As I uncover my rust-free Austin Allegro that has been quietly waiting in the garden shed, for its moment of glory, I cannot but think about what we Brits have missed for the last 47 years. We have missed making our own laws, developing our own culture, and speaking our own language, to such an extent that now, it’s catch-up time. In fact, we should be grateful that we managed to keep our age-old custom of driving on the left. The EU gave in to our intransigence back then, and we got what we wanted.
“Directives 203-B, CC305, XB -1973: All vehicles manufactured in the UK for the EU market will be accepted as long as the main steering wheel is located on the left hand side of the vehicle, as stipulated by paragraph 3 of the C49 regulatory advice, modified by section R46 of the 1999 – 203-B revised agreement.”
It drove us crazy, in a leftie sort of way.
So, where does that leave us for the future? Well, Monsieur Barnier, if you thought Brexit – Series 1 was bad, just you wait for Series 2. BoJo may have run up a whacking majority that will make any small hope of getting a decent deal even smaller, he has definitely run out of ideas. That explains his rather surprising lack of emotions and narrow vocabulary at 11 pm on the night in question. Or is his vocabulary always limited?
But BoJo has nothing to worry about because he already has a trump card up his sleeve. Or is it the other way around? In any case, I just love chicken and because I so fondly remember my chemistry teacher who always impressed us by starting a problem and never finishing it, I still know that you can neutralise hydrochloric acid, present in American chickens, with baking soda. Not only will you neutralise the chlorine, but you won’t even have to add salt.
NaOH + HCl → NaCl (salt) + H2O
The world is really Britain’s oyster, and if Ann Widdecombe has her evil way, the fishing nets will be especially adapted to catch plenty of those, despite EU regulations. Because that was the whole point of Brexit, wasn’t it? Deviating from EU regulations? And how good the Brits are, at being devious.