Big shit + no chief = Brexit

And we’re not talking about a certain resident of 10 Downing Street who’ll probably be able to buy up the place for a song when property prices tumble in London.

Otherwise you can’t expect a self-respecting blogger cum sit-down comedian like me to let an opportunity like this pass – when Chief Loud Blast That Tears the Skies (vide ‘Rule, Britannia!’) is suffering from constipation & the braves go to a paleface medicine man by the name of Cameron instead of to the shaman Farage for advice & succour. “Big chief, no shit,” the braves report.

Strangely enough, Cameron prescribes the same medicine that the shaman has been calling for since the beginning of the buffalo season viz. a referendum, which is duly held with the result that the flags are now flying at half mast in Brussels after they brought the sad news from Aix to Ghent: “Big shit, no chief!” Naturally everyone thought of Cameron and Cameron obliged them by announcing in the course of the day that he’d be taking his hat in around three months, leaving it to his successor to tell Brussels that they were being dumped – shame, as if he couldn’t have done it via SMS. And now look at Angela crying her eyes out.

As a European of non-European descent, I do not know whether to be happy or to be be sad, whether to laugh or to cry. People suffering from anxiety are said to assume the foetal or prenatal position and here we have Britannia trying to go back to the days of ‘splendid isolation’ as in the late 19th century, when Britain was trying to keep its involvement in European affairs to a minimum. Brought them two world wars in rapid succession as a reward, but that is neither here nor there.

In the country that I come from people still wish that Britain had held a referendum of a similar sort on or before the 31st of December, 1600, when John Company was founded. They’d have had no need for Paki bashing and could have had Southhall and Brick Lane all to themselves had they held that referendum… Just imagine, the country that founded the Commonwealth – which was called the British Commonwealth of Nations till 1947 – is leaving the European Union now. Alas, the British European Union is history. Another star gone from the silly little flag of the EU, as if for a children’s birthday party at McSoandso’s. And when Scotland and Northern Ireland go, there will be another two jewels (though no Koh-i-Noor) missing from the British crown – the Queen will soon have nothing to wear and Prince Charles will have only the Maoris to rub noses with, if it goes on like this. Ultimately, Prince George will be King of London & the Suburbs.

Will the European Union miss Little Britain or Disunited Kingdom or whatever the new entity is to be called? Will there be no more English hooligans fighting the Russian ones in Marseille every time there’s an European football championship? Does anyone realise that Euro 2016 has been free of acts of terrorism mainly because of the ‘hools’? Terrorists turning up to do mischief find the battle already in progress on the streets of whichever unfortunate town is hosting a match involving ‘Hool, Britannia’. It was only after reading Spike Milligan’s war memoirs that I realised that in the olden days, half the British populace only got to set foot on the Continent when there was a war. Doesn’t have to be a war, football championships will do nicely, thank you. My last thought on this count: can you imagine people in any of the erstwhile British colonies agonising over the fact that the British are leaving? Hallelujah.

And there is a last question that we have to answer: what was – or is – Britain’s malady? I’ll tell you. It is anxiety neurosis, angst for the future, angst of the future, angst in view of the subliminal penetration of German words like angst into the English language – almost as bad as the droogs speaking nadsat in Clockwork Orange. The British, who were naming every second warship of theirs Intrepid till the other day, have finally angst that reverse colonisation, the retribution for all their sins over nearly five centuries, will finally catch up with them and overwhelm them. Before England is a battlefield, English will be the battlefield, with mutilated grammar and slaughtered syntax and the unkindest cut of all – that Polish accent on top of the Indian one! – there’s this mixed couple I know…

Don’t worry, it’s just me and the wifey. And we live in the EU.

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