Ever dated a crazy girl? Sorry. It is 2019. What I meant to ask is: Have you ever consensually courted a woman of alternative mental enthusiasm?
Well, it is marvelous. Narcotic and vibrating. Every fibrous sinew tensed and trilling. Sooner or later, however, that choppy high leavens into a faint despair. That vivifying alternative mien of hers? Nope. She’s just mental.
What follows is an anthropological study into the turbulent power of relationships. And how we over-brained monkeys may behave when something we depended upon is ripped from grasp.
We get desperate. Act in the strangest of manners. Convince ourselves of a reality calibrated to our fragile comfort.
The current Brexit saga resembles a mass break-up. The jilted resorting to the most desperate and unedifying of endeavors; pursuits which will purple their cheeks in years to come.
As the common knowledge attests, the aggrieved must survive five stages of grief. First, they deny, then comes anger, and then they begin to bargain. At a loss, depression besets them. Eventually, they accept it. And scrub their social media accounts of those projective 3 a.m. statuses authored in their state of poison.
Remainers have broken the Kubler-Ross model of grief. Swirling between denial and anger, imbibing upon grief, springing back from depression, swimming into denial, never lapping at acceptance. It has been three years.
A Brexiteer before it was even remotely cool, Jeremy Corbyn—Labour Party leader, and intellectual Maris Piper, this week implored other party leaders, and Conservative “rebels” to install him as caretaker prime minister so he could stop a spectral no-deal Brexit.
A man elected for his promise to inject some honesty into our politics, Jeremy is happy to sell his decades of political soul for a few weeks in the prime minister’s office.
His fantasy entails: winning a no-confidence vote against Boris Johnson; becoming prime minister; delaying Brexit; calling a snap election and then campaigning for another referendum.
Understandably, the other party leaders told Jeremy to Foxtrot Oscar.
Another example of burgeoning unreality comes in the form of Caroline Lucas, our sole Green Party MP.
Lucas this week proposed an emergency all-female Cabinet. They’d sort out this whole kerfuffle. Apparently.
Lucas, whose party runs Brighton and whose minions convince children they can be male one day and female another, thinks an all-female cabinet is desirable because women are different from men. Dear reader, how novel!
Of course, that zany idea was quashed. Yes, progressives didn’t think it went quite far enough. The fantasy Cabinet was all white. Lucas apologized for her fantasy. And those suckling upon the fantasy declared themselves satisfied that the fantasy had been edited to be more fantastical.
In the real Cabinet, where reality is alleged to preside, Boris Johnson is busy. And his prime ministerial infancy is lathering Remainers into the machinations of the jilted lover.
His announcements, heaven forfend, are replete with things voters care about. You know, the people Lucas and Corbyn and the progressives find so unpalatable, and so desperate to overturn.
He’s getting tough on crime. He’s determined to leave the EU by October 31. He believes immigration policy should be decided by people who actually live here.
Remarkably, or not, Boris has surged in the polls. Governing for the majority is quite popular.
Which is why they must do all they can to stop Brexit. Because that is the real issue, no? That the unfashionable had a say in their own lives.
Indeed, a poll this week found that, when asked if they’re elected to act on their own judgment, or to deliver the wishes of their constituents, 80 percent of lawmakers said their own judgment.
Meanwhile, 63 percent of us voters think the people we elect should act upon our wishes.
Which perhaps explains the incessant wailing. Cries both strange and gorgeous. Like those of an epicene wolf.
Labour lawmakers have expressed utter mental befuddlement.
“He’s going after the votes!” they exasperate, stumbling, it appears for the first time, upon the frivolous contours of democracy.
They hate Trump. They hate Boris. Why? Because both govern for the people. You know, the clods and the rubes and the clingers and the gammons. Those awful folks who clean the offices and nurse the sick and put out the fires and patch the potholes. The daily-breaders. Those folks.
Those peasants who saw, and see, the globalization party rumbling on the coasts and in the cities, with nary an invite. Who hear about GDP figures, and wonder why they haven’t seen a decent wage since their old man brought one home back in the 1970s. Who attempt to pull themselves up by their bootstraps, only to find the bootstrap factory shipped overseas.
In an essay for this journal, American Greatness publisher Chris Buskirk, crystallized the current politic:
Identity politics is for the peasants. It’s the distraction created to keep . . . the wage-earning classes . . . from focusing on the fact that real wages have stagnated for nearly 50 years while the price of . . . housing, education, and healthcare have soared.
The above is why we voted Leave. The above is why Donald Trump is president. The above is why progressives can do nothing about either.