Every word that Donald Trump spews out of his incredibly unappealing mouth further convinces me how right I am to hate him and fear his inexorable rise to power (this is the inherent danger of my newspaper headlines fuelled months of blogging – I get all politically charged, invested and angry). I just don’t know enough about Theresa May to have all that overwhelming an opinion of her. Certainly, I can say that I’m not altogether impressed but her gender alone compels me to give her the tiniest sliver of a chance (yep, I’m being rampantly sexist, want to fight about it?).
Sure, she wants to be the very best, like no one ever was… I think I may have heard that somewhere before. But pledging, promising or even wishing something is rather a way away from it actually occurring. Brexit means Brexit. We’ve been told this over and over in the hope that it might at some point make some semblance of sense. No staying in through the back door or whatever euphemisms outspoken types wants to cram in.
She’s decided that rather than pursuing rational schemes for moving forward (i.e. what I want to happen rather than the excrement sandwich everyone seems so keen on ordering) she’d much prefer to appease the howling masses with promises of strict border controls. To hell with the single market and the havoc ready to be wreaked on our economy. Everything will be so many varieties of fine and dandy just so long as we can keep those awful foreign types out.
All incumbents saunter into the head office swearing that this time it will be different and the changes they’ll personally be bringing about will be all the right ones you’ve been longing for. Why would they say otherwise? Who wants to hear from a realistic politician? Letting people know what’s actually going to happen would be entirely too distressing.