The beaver is a proud and noble animal
Notes from a bemused canuck
A friend said it best:
“This was Labour’s election to lose, and it seems they did so in style by refusing to have a policy on the most important issue of the day (losing their core pro-Brexit voters to the Tories), while running under a man most of Middle England found fanatical and unrelateable.”
I know that all the broadsheets have a media bias, on either side, but it really seems that the tabloids just aren’t even trying anymore. The Sun, particularly, doesn’t disappoint in spoon-feeding garbage to its target audience. I mean, come on, could they pile it on any thicker?
Cats love boxes and enclosed spaces. Pavel is a cat’s cat and loves himself a box. This however, is impressive. We’re not sure how it happened, but he did that all on his own. Having said that, it’s the Christmas gift that keeps on giving…
MPs voted by 438 to 20 to have a pre-Christmas election in what is expected to be the most unpredictable contest in a generation.
After Johnson failed to take the UK out of the EU on October 31 as promised, the major battle line will be drawn along on the subject of Brexit. Sadly, he didn’t die in a ditch. Yet another promise that wasn’t upheld.
The Conservatives will campaign to get Brexit done by pushing through Johnson’s deal, while Labour is promising a second referendum to let the people resolve the EU question.
The Brexit party will try to outgun the Tories by arguing for a no deal Brexit, while the Liberal Democrats will seek remain votes from Labour by pledging to revoke article 50.
God knows how the vote will be split once everything is tallied.
This. THIIIISSSS!!!
Seriously, if my nail clippers and rasors can hijack a plane, they shouldn’t be selling them at duty free!!!!
It’s a (partially) correct answer in more cases that you’d think, or want to believe.
I went to get letter notarized today. Took 10 minutes, great! Get home, realize that they put my name as Richard Gaston and not Richard Gaston Cote (Gaston is my middle name). So go back to the cabinet. They reprint a sheet, have it signed by big boss. Except that now, the date is wrong. They reprint it again, get it signed by big boss again. Name OK, date OK.
Every time they do this they unstaple and restaple the letter. The front page now looks like Swiss cheese with the number of holes in it.
And I’ll have to go back again tomorrow, because I am a Ms Richard Gaston Cote, and they verified her identity against official documents.
After a Brussels press conference punctuated with knowing sighs, in which he again made clear the withdrawal agreement was not up for renegotiation but that – as a gesture of goodwill – he was willing to entertain sensible alternative suggestions from the UK government, the EU council’s president concluded with a simple thought. “I’ve been wondering,” he mused, “what that special place in hell looks like, for those who promoted Brexit without even a sketch of a plan how to carry it out safely.
This was Donald Tusk unplugged. A politician tired of diplomacy that kept going nowhere – ‘What bit of backstop doesn’t the UK get?’ – and happy for once to speak his mind. “They’ll give you a terrible time in the British press for that,” whispered a delighted Leo Varadkar, the Irish taoiseach. Tusk merely smiled. “Yes, I know. Hahaha.” He no longer cared that much what anyone thought. He had tried to be nice to the Brits but all you got in return was news bulletins with Theresa May in a Spitfire and people comparing the EU’s aims with Hitler.
In any case, his question had been largely rhetorical. That special place in hell was only too familiar; it looks pretty much like where we are now. It wasn’t one reserved only for an incompetent and negligent elite of Boris Johnson, Michael Gove, Nigel Farage, Theresa May and the rest. Whatever hell they had in mind, they were taking the rest of us with them. Hell wasn’t other people, it was the whole lot of us.
A UK where everything was steadily getting a little worse by the day. One where the only hope left was that things might not get quite as bad as everyone feared. A reality show for self-harmers and the terminally depressed, hosted by Jacob Rees-Mogg. A land of unmanaged decline. The direction of travel was clear. All that remained unanswered was in which circle of hell we were located.
Original link here
So. Plan A for brexit got shot down in flames. Plan B needs to be proposed by next Monday. Except no one knows what really happens if it doesn’t happen. There is currently no possibility of a workable plan B. The government needs to pull a miracle out of its ass (instead of the usual shit), but EU27 have said that they’re not going to reopen negotiations. I just spent 10 minutes listening to a senior Tory minister deftly avoiding answering very direct questions on “what could you possibly get as a concession from Europe that could negate the biggest parliamentary defeat in recorded history” and “you’ve been ‘listening’ to the MPs for over two years now, why do you think things will change now”.
There’s a motion of no confidence on the table. It’s not guaranteed to pass. If it doesn’t pass, we’re still in the same shit as we are now. If it does pass, the clock is still ticking while madness ensues for a general election.
Labour could win a general election by promising a 2nd referendum. Except that Corbyn doesn’t want to do that. He thinks that he can negotiate a better deal with EU27. Except I’m pretty certain that he can’t, and then we’re back to square -1.
In other words, everything is fine.
The media, evil enemy-of-the-sheeple that they are, were also amused.
Which is wonderful, given these tweets when Obama was president:
I really wonder how Drumpflethinskin will react to this.
The man is an ego-driven narcissist.
How will he rationalize this?
Will it even register in his self-view?
I’m honestly curious.
I’m also reminded me of this scene from The Fifth Element:
It must be green!