When I learned that my local MP was going to vote for the Maydeal on Fiday 29th, Non-B-Day, and told me he was going to do so before the debate had even started, I sent him an e-mail as follows:

Well, I suppose that flogging a dead horse has, at least, the benefit of providing some exercise.


I am a serious animal-fan, but I am not a horse lover, alive or dead. I admire some of them for their looks, but I do the same thing with 20-year-young pretty girls but would not want to ride either of them. However, when it comes to horses, I was told a long time ago that once they are dead, flogging them is about as useful as flogging them when they are alive (when I see diminutive Irishpersons thrashing racehorses which are already galloping their hearts out, I want to take out a contract on them). But the pointlessness of flogging her dead-horse deal is something that our hopeless PM has not been taught. This is Mrs May, who is now emptying her house trying to find a sword to fall upon. On that subject; she offered to resign if her deal was passed, on March 29th. Now that it has failed, again, does this mean that she is not going to? I am cancelling the celebrations.


I now read that there is a possibility of a fourth attempt to drag her horse into the Commons again, on the basis that every rejection so far has produced a smaller majority, so, she must believe, if she keeps on trying often enough, eventually, it will be passed, even if by a majority of one. The horse, at that point, will not merely be dead, it will be in an advanced state of decomposition, and the stink, already choking, will be unbearable. In 1858, Parliament was forced to do something about the stench coming from the excrement-filled Thames outside their windows. It was called The Great Stink. Now, The Even Greater Stink, and from inside. At what point will Mister Speaker say “enough”? Already, a disgraceful bit of chicanery made it possible for May to go for a third attempt by cutting the horse in half, dragging the top end into the House and flogging that, thereby creating the pretence of a change to the motion to get past the Bercow Block. Next, the back-end? Then, the skeleton?


I have mentioned the awful, undemocratic nonsense of taking really big decisions on the basis of bare majorities – 2016 and all that. Which is why I am screaming the place down wherever and whenever I can in my plea for another referendum, to change the rules so that there cannot be another bare majority either way. But here’s a conundrum for me: if a new Commons motion to approve another referendum passes by even one vote, I will break out the prosecco, and be grateful for such a bare-arsed majority. But that has to be the last one. We cannot afford another 52/48 referendum result. Or a 55/45. Or a 60/40. It must be a two-thirds majority – either way. That way, for every vote for/against there will be two against/for. No more argument. No more opportunity for odious Fatty Francois, MP, to fall back on the millions who vote/d to leave, ignoring the millions who voted not to. I wish he would fall back onto something. Preferably a sharp spike.


Wisdom has it that if one is in a hole, one should stop digging – with the unspoken assumption that one should climb the hell out. But the B-word hole is getting deeper and wider, with massive piles of dirt piling up around it. I suspect that even if May and her weary, dreary Commons hangers-on do stop digging, the hole is now so huge that they can’t possibly climb out. Then we could all break out our shovels, pour all the dirt back in and bury the lot of them. That would be a relief for us all, if it were not for the fact that we are all in there with her, as much in the shit as she is.

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