One of the more unfortunate aspects of living in Spain is that I’m surrounded by among the most pretentious of expatriates. Earlier this week I was thoroughly eviscerated by a mob of Yanks convinced in their typically insufferable manner that the EU represents the very best of Europe. I was the only Brexit supporter in this Septic-dominated “group” with a vocal minority of self-loathing Britons, not that it is much of a group as they have made a point of marginalising me as I don’t fit their mould. Not that I really mind, drinking heavily, watching football and jumping into bed with strangers isn’t my idea of a “good time”.
Based on reading their generally petulant rants and moans on social media this morning, I have been able to form a prognosis pertaining to the future. The Chunnel will with immediate effect be bricked-up and all flights between the United Kingdom and the European continent will be cancelled. All diplomatic ties will be broken and there will be no further trade. Should flights be restored prior to my scheduled arrival in the United Kingdom, I will be whipped, lashed and subjected to all sorts of gruesome tortures upon landing at Heathrow. Then again, isn’t that what happens anyway?
My return flight to Luxembourg, if I’m not killed by the EU Gods flinging my British Airways flight into the English Channel, will end with my being subjected to cavity searches and more whippings and lashings at the Luxembourgian border. Then again, isn’t that what happens anyway? My poor mother, after all, has been subjected to additional screening several times upon arriving in the Grand Duchy on connecting flights from other Schengen cities. I might well not have to worry about that, though, as surely I will be cannibalised by the Brexit-supporting troglodytes of Dorset the second they get their first whiff of my German passport. I expect that I will have a Kent apple shoved into my mouth before I’m roasted alive over glowing coals.