At the end of this month Brexit will become a reality. Or will it somehow yet again be postponed? Our English correspondent Seneca III has some thoughts on the matter.
Brexit: The Cities, the Shires and the Open Sea
by Seneca III
In eight days and eight nights as of this writing I will greet the rising sun on the first day of February 2020 with much the same status as I unknowingly did seventy-eight years ago as I entered into this life as a free-born child of England, but I incline to say “much the same status as”, because my freedom, as tentative now as it was then, will not be complete. Yes, our D-Day does hover on a near horizon — in this case just over a week away — but its success or failure is as unpredictable now as it was in June 1944.
Thanks to over four decades of scheming, surrender-treaty-signing politicians we will at best still face almost a year subject to binding EU controls, restrictions and judgements and to the continued payment of huge membership fees to an organisation of which we will no longer be a member and from which we will receive no benefit (if we ever did), plus, at the end of it all, paying thirty-nine billion pounds of ransom money to finally escape its clutches.*
The terms and conditions of this robbery at legal gunpoint are enabled and enforced by the chains those treaties acceded us to. That the ends of those chains are firmly in the hands of an implacable enemy construct across the Channel to which our groveling governing classes pay obeisance is humiliating and dangerously detrimental to our financial and sovereign future.
And, just to ice the cake of our subservience, the rape and plundering of our fishing grounds by EU Seine Net, Electrification and Beam-Dragging Mega-Trawlers will continue at an accelerating pace to the point where, with their food chains destroyed from the bottom up, those waters will have become near sterile wildernesses by the time we get them back eleven months later.
Yet, on that day of days when we at least partially pull the plug, I will still stand proud to be British, to be one miniscule part of a Union and a people who, despite several decades of subtle deceits and nigh on four years of high treason in the corrupted Mother of Parliaments have, for the umpteenth time since the Norman invasion and the third time in the last hundred years, found the will and the courage to resist and repel yet another attempt at foreign hegemony over the once green and pleasant land that is this small wind-swept archipelago in the North Atlantic. And possibly even saved Europe from itself in the process.
Still, I am foremost minded of the fact that at that at 2300 hours on the 31st we will still have that long, uncertain year’s slog ahead of us, a hopefully beneficial progress we might at least be able to sustain for a short span, but only for a short span because the singular triumph of Brexit which succeeded against all odds over this latest attempt to subordinate us to the beat of different drummers is not the linear and forward looking process it would appear to be. It is in actuality a small length of arc on the circumference of the closed circular course of our political affairs where a precession that, if not recognised or accepted with insouciance and thus immediately rejected, always tends to produce another attempt at dominance by inimical entities either from either within or without. Or both.