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.
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