From what we have learnt in the last few days and in the press, I have come to one conclusion, and one conclusion only: 'Brexit' voters are the kind of people who silently fart on the dance floor and walk away whilst chaos ensues.
If we imagine the political landscape as a nightclub, it's plain to see exactly what kind of turmoil we are in as a country now that an unfortunate majority of the nation has decided we need to leave the EU. Since Nigel Farage & Co. dropped their silent but deadly fart on the nation's dance floor, David Cameron has smelt the anal exuberance and thought 'fuck this, I'm calling it a night and getting a kebab'. Meanwhile, Boris Johnson has been snogging a woman in a Union Jack dress that he had convinced himself is Geri Halliwell circa 1990, only to be told later that he had a stolen clinch with a groom on his stag do. Not looking so enticing now, is it Boris?
Meanwhile, all of Boris' 'lads' who I fondly entitle 'the bootcut jeans and brown shoes brigade' are smugly throwing shapes on the dance floor having 'top banter' at the expense of the left wing. 'You're throwing your toys out of the pram' and 'stop banging on about it' statuses are flying around on 'Facebook' like there's no tomorrow- because supposedly all we are upset about is the fact we lost and can't helicopter our political penises around.
Then there are the 'Regrexit' voters nursing one drink all night in the corner because they didn't look at the menu closely enough and ended up picking out a mocktail instead of a cocktail, therefore spending top whack for something they didn't even want in the first place. Isn't it funny how you don't see one person regretting voting remain?
Once you take your eyes off the political dance floor and have the time to take in your surroundings, the nightclub takes a sinister turn where you can see the bouncers round the corner kicking someone's head in just because they don't have the exclusive membership of being born in the United Kingdom.
During the 'Brexit' tragedy, I was holidaying in Berlin for a hen do. When the news broke, the whole party were in shock at the decision to leave. The majority of the attendees were under the age of 30, and all of the attendees spent the rest of the holiday speculating in devastation. We sat incredulous at the decision of the majority of Britain. I personally became immediately disenfranchised with the United Kingdom. In the political nightclub analogy; it's like kissing the person of your dreams, only to sober up half way through and realise they're a physical combination of Farage and Boris in one hit.
Throughout our time abroad on the hen do (now affectionately called 'referhendum', the 'Brexit' was following us round like your local rohypnol wielding pervert. Local Germans wanted to speak with us about it and whilst taking a tour of the city on a beer bike, my friends were interviewed by the German equivalent of the BBC, where they delivered an impassioned sound byte for the German public about how the older generations had robbed us of a decision. By the way- thank you for that older generation. You effectively stopped us from painting the EU town red by telling us to remove our exotic, classy stilettos for a pair of tragic kitten heels that used to look good on Nana.
Eventually as 'referhendum' came to a close and we touched back down in Gatwick, I was hoping to return home to have my sombre 'Brexit' hangover and mourn the poor decisions of the night before. I wasn't expecting to be in the country for 20 minutes and experience what I didn't want to hear: straight up racism. A woman who was absolutely itching to discuss the EU referendum with me despite me batting the conversation on multiple occasions decided to figuratively put her hand down my top on the dance floor without consent. 'Did you know Polish is the second most popular language in England?' (please note the use of the word England, already showing ignorance that there are 3 other countries involved in this referendum). 'I think we should send them all back.' There she was. Your nightclub equivalent of the girl in the toilet who is making everyone uncomfortable; knickers round her ankles, spewing, and making absolutely no sense but forcing you to listen to her diatribe.
Now that we have woken up and it's the morning after the night before, some Brits have rolled over to find 'Brexit' in their bed and realised it wasn't the top shag it was telling you it was last night. Instead, you've gone home with the local lout who spunked all their money last night, and you're having to pay for their taxi home in the morning and for the foreseeable future.
In the cold light of day, we will move on from the horrors and let downs of this big night out. All we have to remember and take from this, until the dust has settled, is that factually the younger generation voted to stay together. Yes, there are always exceptions to the rules, but there is something satisfying in knowing the majority of your generation are able to make smart decisions. If we are forced into a situation where we can't do the right thing politically, then we take it to the streets. Be kind to each other, don't stand for segregation and intimidation, and make a stand and do what is morally within your control. It may also be an option to look for other nightclubs to frequent and steer clear of the 'Brexit' clientele, perhaps we can make our own members only club, hey?
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