Giles Brown
SO. The prophecy came to pass and the worst nightmare for those who were clinging onto the faint hope that the Tories would lose the election and that Brexit would be cancelled has come true.
Never mind the Boris – Brexit means Brexit and the UK will go crashing out of the EU leaving Remainer Brits in Spain (guilty as charged. I grew up as a Single European under Jacques Delors) in the kind of wasteland that TS Elliot would have dismissed as too bleak.
I went to bed on the night of the election with the faint hope that I would wake up to the news of the biggest upset in British political history.
An early morning glance at my Twitter feed, however, abruptly put an end to that.
A Hungarian friend in the UK, whose family fled in 56, was inconsolable on Twitter, so I sent a ‘virtual hug’ to her. Yes. That is a thing.
Seconds later we were being trolled for being ‘fairies’. Troll-hunter that I am, I immediately sprang to her defense.
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“How dare you” I replied. “I’m a gnome”.
My second thought was what action I should take now that Brexit now seems inevitable.
After deciding that it really was too early for rum – although a significant number of my friends seemed to be hitting the carajillos earlier than usual – I reasoned that it would be a good plan to tidy up the bits of paperwork that were still outstanding, on the grounds that most other Brits would be banging their heads on the kitchen table in quiet desperation.
It now turns out that I am missing one particular piece of paperwork that might be a bit of a problem.
My original plan of building a cabin on the back of one of the boats, rowing out into the middle of the lake and declaring myself an offshore financial centre has been scuppered by a lack of water, Spanish citizenship might be tricky and I’m loathe to get a green card by an arranged marriage in Lepe.
So in the meantime I’m stocking up on canned food and medical supplies, heading back to the hills and barricading myself in the Casita.
Where I intend to sit tight until I qualify for a Scottish passport. Never mind the Boris indeed!
Good luck with that Scottish thing Giles. My Irish forebears give me hope for the future. You only need one Irish grandparent and a few quid/euros and you get to stay in the club of five hundred million members, instead of Fantasy Island.