bargaining chips

When the chips are down
Protect your
Death-defying clowns

Punt people:
Yours, theirs…
Who cares?

Fair bet:
Security will hurt itself
Let yourself be horrified

Bulldogs bark, powered by ideologies
Brexit has an energy
Flushing through. Flush it out to sea.

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Plotters

Brexits think there’s a plot afoot
To scupper their long-held dream
But they forget it is they who won
And they can’t get over the fact that they won
And they have no faith in what they have won
So it seems…
And we who voted Remain:
Who are we to stand in their way?
Who are we to complain?
Poor lambs;
We must remind them every day,
EVERY SINGLE DAY
What they have done.

*~*~*

There’s no secret plot.’ – Democracy did not end the day after the referendum

Ian Dunt: ”The idea of an international elite secretly trying to thwart the people’s will is core to the Brexit narrative.”

James O’Brien: “Barnier is having to explain to the British people what the British government is doing!”

Bimble bumble

But faithiness was fact enough,
as brexiteers,
with zip between their tinnied ears,
did bimble bumble utter tosh
and bury Britain before she died;
a scam so wide, so deep, so sly,
that some might call it treasonous.

*~*~*

’Just-in-time’: The production system Brexit is set to sabotage – ”Imagine the scenario where goods are waiting at port but are held up by protracted customs checks, compliance procedures, rules-of-origin paper work and the rest. Things could be held up for days or weeks.”

‘How shared regulation can help, rather than hinder, trade’ – Ian Dunt: ”Their (Brexiteers’) error here is a fundamental one and one that speaks to how heavily influenced they are by nostalgia. They think about trade as if it were the Victorian times.”

’Jacob Rees-Mogg is in line for a huge personal windfall when Britain exits the single market’ – But of course, he is.

Headspace #20—Crunch time on Brexit’ – Featuring John Curtice with a #finalsay appraisal and a glorious calling out of Gisela Stuart’s constant and ridiculous Brexit/Lexit hopium by Ian Dunt who knows a load of nonsense when he hears it.

In which ‘Greg Hands gets on the wrong side of exasperated Andrew Neil’ over single market and customs union during the two-year transition period. Eventually, an exasperated Neil asked: “Do you know what you’re talking about? Do you have any idea what you’re talking about?”

But, then, nineteen months after the referendum and nearly a year since invoking Article 50, Theresa May and her ministers still can’t agree because the Brexiteers still don’t know or even understand how what they want compares with what is desirable, sensible or even possible…

 

 

 

 

What do you want, then, Brexits?

What do you want, then, Brexits?

You can see the menu. You know what is on offer. You know what is not. You know what is and what is not possible.

Everyone can see the menu. Heck, the world and his wife can see what is possible and what is not.

You should know and understand, by now – even though you apparently did not previously know or understand – the four foundational freedoms of the club to which you have been a leading member state for over forty years.

Everyone else knows. And understands.

You just have to study the example model deals that have been made, already, between the EU and other parties and pick the model that provides the nearest match. Then, what you do is you look at the numerous gaps between all those example model deals and what Brexit Britain, ideally, would be looking for and what it would take – that both the UK and the EU would accept – to close those gaps.

Then, what you do is you compare the likely, the possible and the known consequences of your options with what is good and bad about the current status you are so keen to flee. Then, what you do is… you choose.

Why are you still struggling with this? Brexit obviously isn’t going to be at all better than the best-of-all-worlds position that we currently enjoy but you also said that leaving would be very quick and really easy and you are mostly making it look like Brexit is just tedious and difficult and definitely not worth the trouble.

Like to visit yesterday but don’t actually want to live in one

When I was a kid and my room got to a certain state of mess, I would come home from school, sometimes, to find that my mum, at the end of her patience, had dumped everything I seemed to possess, in a pile, on top of my bed. This is your life: sort it out; show it some respect.

Of course, I’d get all indignant for a bit and then I’d spend the next few hours sorting, throwing out, rearranging and putting away. It would take ages because I would put music on and get lost in time and feeling and thought. All the things I’d held on to, for good and bad. Things I really should have looked after better, particularly given my contemporaneous and melodramatic sense of attachment. Rubbish that I’d once thought passed for memento. Actual rubbish. Clothes, books etc, that already had places to go other than the floor and any other available surface… The periodic accumulation of my childhood and early teenage identities, all there assembled.

It was both practical and meditative and, by the time I was ready to do a final polish and vacuum, I had unburdened, reconciled, organised and discovered treasures, both real and self-realising. I always felt invigorated, focused and enthused. Like riding a wave.

The older I got, of course, the less Mum would need or deign to go into my room. I changed my own bed, ironed my own laundry, etc. She would say how grateful she was to no longer have cause and (half) joke about feeling sorry for anyone who might have to live with me, one day.

However, by the time I got my own first flat, clutter would only ever be allowed to amount to one or two small, neat piles, though there was always a cupboard, a drawer that you’d be brave to open, in front of anyone. Still is, three decades later. We all have a cupboard, a kitchen drawer, a pile like that, though, don’t we: places of homeless miscellany and random essentials?

But it’s not about perfection, is it? It’s about management: not letting things get too out of hand, trusting your own judgement; finding peace of mind; being able to recognise when things need attention – when it is better to correct something or to let it go. Things stand and fall by their own merits, when we are more interested in being philosophically honest and a little less ideologically attached to outcomes. It’s about perspective: nebulous romanticism dilutes discernment and hoarding and myopic control are distorting. It’s about preparation: being disciplined and organised, enough that you can free space for reflection and potential and play. It’s about perfecting.

Mum’s lesson has extended far beyond mere housekeeping. Tidy environment, tidy mind, so to speak. I discovered my personal comfort zone between being too accommodating and being ruthlessly expedient. The boundary between the temporary muddle of a neat pile or a couple of items, carelessly slung and the compound detriment of neglect and the overwhelm of perpetual chaos. I learned to spot when things are getting or are likely to become a jumbled, uncomfortable state; to tidy up and reflect as I went. I came to recognise that disseminating information, arranging thoughts, making decisions is easier – safer – when you respect your own mind; when you don’t let other people’s crap stay too long; when you don’t just push pain, guilt, fear and fantasy to the back of your mind and expect them to be either easily forgotten or to play nicely together; when you don’t waste time on misuse and cheap ornament; when you like to visit yesterday but don’t actually want to live in one.

Brexit is like a tiger mum just emptied every nebulous yesterday, every socio-economic hope and angst, every cheap ornament, upon the country’s bed.