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Theresa May tried one last Brexit – a half-Brexit played out by a marching flute band – but they still said no

Whatever it did or didn’t mean, this meaningful vote with no meaning, it lost, again, by miles

Tom Peck
Political Sketch Writer
Friday 29 March 2019 17:35 GMT
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Tory Brexiteer Nigel Evans complains about having to cancel his 'Brexit party'

Hard Brexit? No. Soft Brexit? No. Smooth? No. No Deal? No. Jobs first? Slow? Botched? Disorderly? No, No, No, No. Hotel California? No. Damaging Tory? No. Red, White and Blue? No.

And now, finally, with the Brexit Doomsday clock having run out of batteries and been taken to Cash Converters by a desperate nation to be swapped for eight cans of super-strength cider, there was, finally, one more Brexit to try.

This was Theresa’s very last roll of the Brexit dice. What she was offering them was a half-Brexit, hidden behind a fishing trawler on the back of an articulated lorry, escorted by a marching flute band. And they said no to that as well.

She lost this time, this latest vote on what she evidently feels to be the Best Bits of her withdrawal deal, by a mere 58 votes. Down from 230, down from 149, a trajectory that is almost inverse exponential, but is a function that does not return to zero or beyond.

It was Brexit’s Les Miserables-style marathon scene. This was meant to be Britain’s “Independence Day” (copyright Nigel Farage, wobbling about on a coffee table, growling over the TV cameras into a plasterboard ceiling at dawn, 1,010 terrible days ago).

But there is to be no independence. Big Ben shall not bong. Instead it stood King Canute-like above the Westminster circus, as those inside and outside the palace duked it out over a long sunny morning and afternoon to decide, once and for all, who had gone more mad.

What they were voting on, still nobody quite knows. They’ll say there were documents involved, but they were voting on an emotion, really, a colour. This was Meaningful Vote 3: Look Who’s Meaningful Now, but the debate in the House of Commons began with the attorney general telling the House of Commons, “This vote is not meaningful.”

Which does rather beg the question, what were they all doing there? Though it begs it no louder than at any point in at least the last three years.

The ‘yellow vests’ were there, about fifty of them, wandering about in aeroplane-style holding patterns, occasionally pausing to shout the word ‘traitor’ and then enjoy the tiny parasexual thrill that followed this little act of oral violence

Theresa May’s ingenious ruse had been to get them to vote only on her withdrawal agreement not the political declaration on the future relationship, which is kind of like trying to bribe a toddler into eating broccoli with a promise of absolutely no pudding to follow.

What is meaning, anyway? The boundaries of western philosophical enquiry do not brush against an answer to that question even after thousands of years, and there was certainly none to be found here.

Theresa May had sought to bribe her party into finally acting in the national interest by promising its more sociopathic members she would stand down early and let them fight it out to replace her. The Conservative Party in 2019: “Just do the right thing, just once, just for a second, and I’ll put you in charge and you’ll never have to do anything like it ever again.”

As events crescendoed towards their Godot-like conclusion inside, outside they did the same.

A pipe band, calling themselves “The Defenders” marched round Parliament Square, in pursuit of a white, open top “Leave Means Leave” bus with nobody on it. Continually Ukip’s organisers of this kind of event still beam from what they perceive to be the triumph of their naval battle with Bob Geldof. This time, for reasons known to them and them alone, they drove a fishing trawler up Whitehall on the back of an articulated lorry.

The “yellow vests” were there, about 50 of them, wandering about the small patch of grass in aeroplane-style holding patterns, occasionally pausing to shout the word “traitor” and then enjoy the tiny parasexual thrill that followed this little act of oral violence.

The French protested in hi-vis singlets because they are legally required to carry one in their car. Here becoming the Next Big Thing in viral proto-fascism necessitates a trip to Halfords. Bless them.

Football chants were attempted; “No-deal Brexit!” to the tune of “Guantanamera” managed to sustain itself for up to two choruses.

Among the most vocal was a woman in her late fifties, clutching a glitter-sprayed, gold-sequinned SingStar karaoke microphone, plugged in to absolutely nothing, screaming “Theresa May is a traitorous cow!” over and over again.

Her screaming carried her closer and closer to the palace gates, until eventually she found herself vituperating a touchpad security doorway that stubbornly refused to yield.

Because no one is yielding, round these parts. Nothing is giving, nothing is changing.

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At the end of a vote badged as meaningless but loaded full of meaning, Theresa May stood up to tell the House of Commons what it all means.

It will mean a lengthy delay to Brexit, and quite possibly, the UK taking part in elections to the European parliament, she told them, though they stopped listening months ago.

Those elections might just be the wildest electoral event this country has ever seen. It may even be that, with gentle tweaking, glitter mic lady has a stump speech on her hands. On this evidence, she’s certainly got the voters.

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