Idiot's Guide to Brexit 11

MPs return from the south of France on September 3 to resume the struggle. The digitalia are rife with rumour and innuendo: will the two Dominics (Raab -- Boris’s foreign secretary, and Cummings – his Bannon/Svengali) succeed in their determination to “prorogue” (suspend) Parliament for 5 weeks beginning September 9, allowing No Deal Brexit to happen on October 31? Will Jeremy Corby persuade enough MPs to hold their nose, mouth, eyes, ears and throat and back a vote of no confidence in Boris, allowing Corbyn to “take the keys to #10,” suspend Hallowe’en, and call a general election? Will rebel MPs seize control of the Parliamentary agenda and pass legislation to suspend Hallowe’en? Will Emmanuel Macron blink, call Boris and say, “On second thought, we don’t really care about the Irish backstop.”???

Henry Mance, the FT’s chief wag and features editor, brought some British humour to bear on all of this in today’s paper:

THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT by Edward Lear

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat,

They took some honey, and plenty of money,

Wrapped up in a five-euro note.

Which is more contingency planning than many British firms.

STOPPING GOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING by Robert Frost

Whose goods these are I think I know.

We have no customs system though.

He will not mind just waiting here

While we slowly figure it out.

Not to be outdone, FT readers had a few contributions of their own:

JABBERWOCKY by Lewis Carroll

’Twas Brexit, and the Tory toves

Did gyre and gimble like the Raab;

All mimsy was the Michael Gove,

With the best jobs outgrabbed.

“Beware the Johnsoncock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the BoJo bird, and shun

The undemocratic snatch!”

He took his porkpie sword in hand:

Long time the rank dumb foe he sought—

As it nested by the TrumpDump tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,

The Johnsoncock, with eyes of flame,

Came piffling through the Brexit wood,

And dribbled as it came!

Out, Out! Out, Out! But prorogue ye not 

The porkpie vote went through the commons!

And left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Johnsoncock?

Come to my arms, my Bercow boy!

O frabjous day! Brussels! Calais!”

All chortled in their joy.

’Twasn't Brexit, and the Tory toads

Funeral pyre and wrinkle in the wake;

All melted was the Michael Gove,

And the ERG rats outraged.

DIE TIEFPÜNKTE DES BREXITS FUNKELN by Heinrich Heine
Ich weiss nicht, was soll es bedeuten,

Dass ich so traurig bin;

Ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten,

Das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn.

Die Luft ist kühl, und es dunkelt,

Und ruhig fliesst die Themse,

Die Tiefpünkte des Brexits funkeln

Im herbstlichen Abendende.

I DO NOT KNOW, WHAT DOES IT MEAN

THAT I AM SO SAD;

A FAIRY TALE FROM THE OLD DAYS,

THAT DOES NOT ESCAPE MY MIND.

THE AIR IS COOL AND IT DARKENS,

AND CALMLY FLOWS THE THAMES,

THE DEEP PEBBLES OF BREXIT SPARKLE

IN THE AUTUMN EVENING