“No deal is better than a bad deal” squawked the Disney vulture a few months back to an audience of Brexiters equally as deluded as the fans of the show, as she stood in front of 22 metaphorical boxes of shit.
No you heavy night personified, it isn’t. You know what’s even better than no deal or a bad deal? The deal we’ve already fucking got. Or a good deal, but so far your negotiating strategy is akin to renting a BMW, scratching the bumper, only offering 20% of the costs and then being miffed when the garage keep hanging up the phone.
Yes, the EU are as petty and awkward as a toddler at nap time, but you can’t whinge about talks stagnating when you won’t settle the bill, and David can’t even be arsed turning up to the meetings. That’s not negotiating, that’s the fucking silent treatment, like they staggered in at 2:30am without even texting.
The EU don’t want to make leaving look too attractive to its other members, and like Josef Fritzl with a new padlock, they’re going to make it as difficult as possible.
Think about it, they can’t ditch the divorce bill for every Thomàs, Ricardo and Adalard whilst letting them retain all the perks. If they did then what would be the point of a fucking Union in the first place?
Face it. We’re fucked. There is no luck, no chance, and the banker isn’t going to be surprisingly generous. It doesn’t matter that we brought a Mascot or that Mandy with box 3 has a good feeling.
Writing shit on the back of hands won’t make a difference and asking the universe will do fuck all. We can swap the box as much as we want and let Noel say a fucking prayer if we like, but deep down, we all know with 100% certainty that our box will be filled with shite.