We’re almost there. Europe. Not Europe. Leaving. But maintaining. Keeping sweet. Pissing off. Not staying, never staying, fuck ‘em all. Peripherally involved. Semi-European. We have finally reached the status of our own metaphor. We are an Island within the European continent, an isolated, separated and independent… thing in the middle of the North Sea.

Fortunately, that’s where most of the fish live too. Which is why we had bargaining power. Whatever the offer was from Michel (fucking) Barnier, whatever Ursula bitched about, however Macron and Merkel made their demands, the answer was the same: I’ll match that and raise you three haddock. The French love their fish so much they were prepared to swap 6,000 Covid infested lorries for half a dozen herrings.

So now, as I write this, we are actually ‘on the cusp’ of an agreement. Not ‘on the cusp’ like we have been for the past two-and-three-quarter years, but properly there. Just one simple, 2,000 page document to glance at and we’re done.

And we are ‘done’. I still maintain that this whole deal is a ‘fuckage limitation’ exercise for the biggest mistake our nation had ever made, but in the reign of King Boris we’re constantly re-defining what the term ‘fuck up’ really means. But never mind, we were saved by the cod. Although the details remain to be seen…

I wonder if the fish know they’re British, as they swim around? Are they aware that they might be wrapped (eventually) in last Tuesday’s Guardian pages, or those of La Monde? We need more research.

My wife likes Mickel Arteta, the Arsenal manager. Thinks he’s very handsome, in a swarthy way. And I have to agree. He’s beautiful. Has a nice family. Probably treats them really nicely. Wonderful father. Does lots of charitable work for the community. And possibly plays chess like a grandmaster, darts like a fat northern bastard or can dance like Fonteyn. He has a lot going for him.

Unfortunately, managing a football team, particularly ‘that’ football team is not one of his many virtues. They don’t pay him (probably) half a million quid a week to look pretty. Otherwise Sam Dyche would never work again. They pay him to take a bunch of fairly talented, profoundly mercenary, showboatingly individualistic foreigners, turn them into a cohesive ‘team’ and show them how to win.

Yet when I saw them against Manchester City the other night all I saw was hopeless. And still playing the ball wide to cross into… into… into someone really short who’s surrounded by really big defenders.

I will personally pay for Arsenal to extend Arteta’s contract for another 10 years. Keep it up, Mickel.

Happy Christmas Eve!!!

A xxxx

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