Since Brexit the British Bulldog has turned into Scrappy Doo
Many, many years ago, when gun powder and industry reigned supreme, Britain was a major player with an empire spanning two thirds of the world, founded on greed and power and acquired by force, genocide and slavery. Our flag was known accross the globe as the butcher’s apron. Thankfully we moved on.
Being part of the European Union has granted us relative peace for the last 70 years. Enemies became allies in the ashes of our empire, and as it crumbled around us we were no longer alone. We picked the battles and we chose the ones we could win.
Fast forward to 2018 and a Theresa May led Tory government. We’ve renounced the union, told our neighbours to fuck off and are now picking fights with the hardest boy in school.
What the fuck is happening? We’re jumping into a war with an opponent that could obliterate us without even breaking a sweat, on the basis of one event, with no proof, after choosing solation.
We’ve got a petulant Defence Minister spouting play ground taunts at one of the world’s biggest super powers, a hyperactive Foreign Secretary who still gets his hair cut by his mum slinging unfounded accusations around, and a power hungry stiletto personified who wants her war because they all fucking get one.
This country has gone nuts, Brexit has given us delusions of grandeur. We’re not a super power anymore, and no amount of starving children and fining homeless people to raise £48 million for a chemical weapons defence centre is going to change that.
If there is a full scale war, chemicals won’t get a look in. We’ll be obliterated by nukes before we can even think about asking our snubbed neighbours for a little help.
The British Bulldog is dead. We’re Scrappy Doo. We’re the country equivalent of small man syndrome. We’re fucked!
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