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The Weekly Brexit: What’s The Point, It Doesn’t Matter

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what it’ll be that kills me.

Old age would be nice, but it takes a certain kind of lucky sod to just quietly and unspectacularly stop working one day. Few ever make the cut. Cancer, on the other hand, isn’t so picky. Nor is heart disease, or diabetes for that matter. Maybe it’ll be a neck-and-neck race between smoking and drinking, who can get to their respective final destinations (lungs, liver) quicker? Perhaps, one day, a stroke will just swoop on in and finish me off.

If my body holds out, fate might intervene; a crash, bang, fall, slip – something like that. I once – during a particularly sorry moment – spent an entire evening reading up on people who’d passed away during sex. While at first the thought of signing out mid-session sounded all very roguish and enigmatic, closer deliberation concluded that such a send-off would probably have catastrophic effects on the other party’s ability to commit to any kind of future physical intimacy, which, in the grand scheme, is kind of selfish. Nothing says bad shag like someone dying on you. Or under you. Whatever.

I’ve wasted hours thinking about my inevitable death. I don’t know why. I’m not scared of dying, but I’m not totally unfazed by the prospect, either. I imagine it’s totally fucking boring. Either way, it doesn’t matter anymore. All of the morbid brainstorming was for nothing. For now, in February 2017, I know exactly how I will die.

I know this, because I was watching President Donald Trump’s press conference. I watched it in its entirety, all 77 unhinged minutes of it. Trump’s latest altercation with the world’s media was an unyielding amalgamation of hybrid surrealism. It was weird, scary, extraordinary and dumb. The broadcast showed a man unpredictable, unprepared and unhinged; a bipolar exercise in erratic confrontation. The whole thing, in all of its inarticulate, whirling farce, would have been funny if it wasn’t so core-shakingly terrifying. It was a high-octane splurge of sugar-rushed antagonism, only without the bad CGI and welcome end credits.

I am going to die in a a blaze of thermonuclear aggression. Donald Trump is going to drop a bomb on me.

Woah,” they shout. “There’s some of that leftist hysteria that you’re all so good at – that’s why you’re losing the debate!” It’s quite the opposite, actually. If anything, I’m at peace with the whole thing. I’ve always found that it’s the unknowing that’s truly scary. There’s none of that here. Hysterics have been displaced by an eerie kind of usurping acceptance. I am going to die via the medium of big, nasty bomb, sent with best wishes from President Donald. It was cheaper than having my palm read, too.

So yeah, some Brexit stuff did happen this week – and it might even have made a semi-interesting column. But it wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing does anymore. Theresa May can give us a hard, soft, long, short, red, white and blue as the ocean on a summer’s day Brexit, but it won’t change a thing. We are all going to bow out, hand-in-hand, among the screaming inferno of a nuclear explosion. He’ll be king of the ashes, and we’ll be wherever’s next.

For what it’s worth, I feel well and truly at ease. Happy Friday.


Words by Niall Flynn

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