Return to Fantasy Island

I voted today, having waded through a flood outside the polling station which would have put an eel off, I’d have thought. I am however more man than eel (although Freud, a very important man to me, spent much of his life thinking about eels, so there’s some eel in me … my book on psychoanalysis as a footnote to the study of eels will have to wait). All night, rain of Biblical proportions. All week, and the weeks before, lies and bullshit and coruscating moments of insight to the state of this pumped up nation.
        What I’ve heard and seen most are fantasies of leaving. Of an Exodus to a promised land that doesn’t exist other than in the discredited rhetoric of some third-rate politicians. Of a future, like a sad little pink eel, in the clammy hands of Boris Johnson … and you may do what you will imagining the fate of that little eel.
        It’s all an exit strategy. It’s all too much. It’s the mid-life crisis of (mainly) desperate men. I’m interested in who’s going to hang around and clean up the mess. A mess of the last twenty years, and many more before that. Look around us at the effects of lies on the scale of Blair’s weapons of mass destruction, of his rationale for expansion in higher education; and of his (or at least his administration’s) immigration policies that seemed to arrive like ghosts in the night. What was that about?
        Defence, education and immigration. Blair and his crew butchered the last of the truth in all three to the extent that Johnson and Gove can dismiss experts as if they were flies.  And Cameron?  Cameron. He with his piggy intent, somehow Blairite, more Blaire-lite … but with ‘austerity’. A more toxic bucket of filth tossed at the British public – as it has been across the world. A choice to create wealth by inflicting pain upon the most vulnerable. You’d think there was a pervert residing at the exchequer.
        And there was Clegg, awfully but briefly.
        This referendum is about immigration and emigration, and little else. Coming and going. Leaving a sinking ship for fantasy island, again. It happens horribly regularly in politics when the chips are down. Good luck if you’re on the lifeboat rowing into the sunset (be careful Boris doesn’t push you overboard when he finds the rations are running low). If you’re staying here can we have all hands to the pumps, please?
        The problem is that, whatever happens, at the same time nobody’s going anywhere. What is it about eels?


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