I was thinking the other day about the times before we became European. The bad old days as I like to call them (yes, I’m a Remainer). I think we have conveniently forgotten the trials and tribulations of the dark society that we were then.
The streets of Stratford upon Avon (not London) were very different before we became European.
Before European sophistication set in, I seem to remember that our pavements were knee-deep in dog poop. In those days if you saw someone picking up dog shit and putting it into a black bag, you were more likely to call the police than thank them for being good citizens.
There was litter everywhere. You couldn’t walk down High Street without becoming entangled in the discarded obituary column of a week-old copy of the Stratford upon Avon Herald, flying through the air. (In those dark days the Herald was huge, (6ftx6ft). An airborne copy was without doubt a danger to life and limb. I know people who were near suffocated by the local paper just going to the shops).
If you were labelled sophisticated before we became European, it meant that you had dined in the local ‘foreign’ restaurant at least once, (Wimpey’s didn’t count).
Hidden away down a side street you could tell it was ‘foreign’ because of it had a brightly coloured awning, a rain-stained menu and plastic flowers in the window. It also kept odd opening hours.
It was where you went for family celebrations like anniversaries and wakes. You could shout at the swarthy waiters (because no-way would they understand you) and pretend to mispronounce the menu when in truth you had no idea what you were ordering. Same with the wine. If it wasn’t Blue Nun, you were lost.
As for the pubs.
If you got home at 11.00 you called it a lock-in. The beer really was warm, and the lager was so cold. it must have been that, that gave you the headache.
Another interesting fact was that people the next morning, could tell you had been to the pub the night before. And how? Because you stank of fags, and stale beer. You have to remember that in the days before we became European, bath night was Sunday. (Showers were what posh people had). All we needed before bed was a quick rub-down with a damp flannel, an Alka-Seltzer before retreating to a stained pillow.
So, Brexit is according to our lunatic Prime Minister (and our lap dog MP), done and dusted. We are no longer European
I have and do (cross my heart) accepted the decision made by a British people to return to pockets full of dirty copper coins, snotty but safely pocketed handkerchiefs, vests, Y-Fronts and toilet paper abrasive enough to take a layer of skin off your good old British arse.
So be it.
This is a democracy. A vote was taken, and we have control back (whatever that means). I lost – you won.
We are, so you tell me ‘free’.
This may be so…but please don’t expect me to walk around with a smile on my face.