Rate My Brexit Deal
I’ve just got back to London after a year abroad, when I left it everyone was still going on about stuff like the migrant crisis and David Cameron fucking a dead pig, but now we’ve thankfully moved on to a much more important matter: rating the meal deals of strangers on the internet.
For those of you who don’t know what a meal deal is, it’s some combination of sandwich, soft drink and additional snack sold in a supermarket for £3, which is purchased mainly for the purpose of being called a ‘nonce’ on a facebook group by various people I suspect work in JJB Sports.
What did we do before meal deals could be rated online? Did anyone even eat sandwiches? Why does anyone ever consider drinking Monster Energy for any reason? These are all questions.
However, I do feel that this recent obsession with meal deal evaluation has somewhat skewed the British people’s sense of perspective. Because when Sainsbury’s took the Taste The Difference sandwiches out of the meal deal the people of the internet lost their collective shit, with people across the country unleashing their unbridled rage against Sainsbury’s for committing this injustice upon the common man.
There were even talks of a ‘boycott’ of Sainsbury’s, which I think misunderstands what a boycott is. If you just stop buying Sainsbury’s meal deals because you no longer like the product, that isn’t a boycott, that’s just capitalism. Admittedly, capitalism being primarily driven by people refusing to eat a sandwich without avocado in it, but capitalism nevertheless.
People have officially reacted with more outrage at having avocado taken out of their £3 sandwich with crisps and a drink than they did at having their European citizenship taken away by Nigel Farage, a human cheesestring and some massive lies written on the side of a bus.
I think Theresa May should be made to post any negotiated Brexit deal on a facebook group so that people who work in JJB Sports can abuse her for it. Because that’s democracy now. Or it may as well be democracy because it turns out people will believe anything if you write it on a bus.
I can imagine Theresa now, dabbing at the dispatch box in parliament with a prawn mayo sandwich, diet coke and a dossier of prospective trade agreements: ‘rate my multi billion pound eu deal, go easy tho, its my first time’.
The opposition benches will scream variations of: “Where are the crisps Theresa you fucking nonce!?”, “3/10, no access to the common market.”, “Prawn mayo? Your dad sells avon mate.”
Or rather, the opposition would scream that were they not too busy having a civil war between an old man who hallucinates on trains and, ironically, a man who would seem to be a supporting character from Thomas The Tank Engine.
And they’re certainly not as effective an opposition as this man running for the state parliament in Russia.
Does Jeremy Corbyn own a scythe? No. Could Jeremy Corbyn operate a scythe competently if he did have one? Almost certainly not.
Just look at Jeremy Corbyn. Is that a man who could pull off a ponytail with a dubious brown paisley shirt? Of course not. It’s a took which even Tony Blair on holiday in the early 2000s would have struggled with. I dare say it’s a look, the sheer wavyness of which might have cowed Laurence Llewelyn Bowen in his prime. It’s a look for the few, the brave, the leader of the opposition.
Would the Tory front bench be looking so smug if they were facing down a ponytailed man in paisley with a scythe? I put it to you that they would not.
Imagine David Davis, blithely reading out his latest brexit news from the dispatch box like:
“Brexit, of course, means brexit, but that doesn’t necessarily entail exit or even br and, furthermore, we will be leaving the common market if we have to accept its terms, unless of course we don’t leave it, in which case we won’t, although this is-”
Davis is suddenly interrupted by the sound of a scythe, quite literally scything through the air, cutting his ring binder in two before becoming lodged firmly in the walnut wood box beneath. He looks up to see the leader of the opposition, draped in paisley, ponytail akimbo:
“We will settle this like men!” He cries, making love to Davis right there on the dispatch box, firmly and passionately, yet with a surprising gentleness. At the conclusion of the love-making he stands, naked, and declares: ‘There will be no brexit!”
All the MPs cheer and carry him all the way to the European Parliament in Brussels. Except Owen Smith, whom the Fat Controller had sent to help Percy deliver some coal to a factory on the other side of the hill.
I don’t really know what my point is except that the guy with the scythe should be Labour leader.
Follow me on Twitter: @milo_edwards