A Delve Into the F*cked-Up Fairytale Madness of the Remainer Mindset

I was never a huge fan of Neil Gaiman but I respected him. The Sandman series was interesting and a few of his novels I’ve read were pretty good. None of them blew me away but he seemed competent. A decent writer, who didn’t pretend to be a great one. I liked the fact that he said himself that he wasn’t a genius, that he had a talent, but not an extreme talent. That was honest, and few writers are honest about their own limits as writers, ever.

And now this.

Where to start? It’s batshit crazy, obviously, like almost every Remain gimmick and comment these days. “You never tried to change me.” “We were growing together.” If this was addressed by Romeo to Juliet it would still be f*cking dishonest garbage.

Real relationships change people. It’s what they do if they mean something. Real relationships have jagged edges, and moments where you f*cking hate the one you love. Maybe not many moments like that, but some. Real relationships are not always fairy lights and earth shattering orgasms; any writer older than five should know that. Some of the greatest love stories in history have been nothing but drink and malice and cold hard f*cking, for God’s sake. Some others, just as great, have been hand holding celibate meetings of the mind by people horrified with each other’s genitals. None of them have been the kind of saccharine nothingness that Gaiman describes, in excruciatingly dull prose.

But perhaps more importantly, these relationships have been between human beings, between living, breathing, panting, laughing, joking, farting, eating, sh*tting, screaming, lying, worrying and dying human beings. They have never been between an entire class of hysterical privileged wanker and a vast corrupt bureaucracy. Talking about the EU as if you are addressing a lost lover is f*cking insane. It is a bureaucracy you are talking about. It is a bunch of Belgians in suits. It is a private shopping mall where taxes don’t apply to pen-pushers and their expensive mistresses. It is hundreds of thousands of pages of soul-numbingly tedious regulations on everything from bath salts to horse spunk, car parts to chickens.

If you genuinely think you have been in a loving relationship with 33,000 EU bureaucrats and a collection of large ugly buildings in Brussels and Strasbourg you are a retarded loon not fit to be allowed to vote in the first place. And we Brexiteers have done you an enormous favour by slapping you in the face and telling you to calm the f*ck down. It’s us or electro-shock therapy, you dumb b*stard.