How Marmite Will Make Britain Implode—Brexit/Breakfast, A Dichotomy.

Opening Argument: politics is show business for ugly people. In Support: President Trump (Apprentice US), Sir Alan Sugar, businessman, and current member of House of Lords (Apprentice UK). Further Support—these so called politicians are living the superstar life without a) gaining plus 150 pounds for a role, b) an ‘ugly’ prosthetic or c) any wig of any sort—they have it all, all naturally, and my god, they flaunt it. These lawmakers are the living the good life, like a rapper taking a private jet to Coachella.

Never has the divide between the elite and the politician been so thin, (it is literally as thin as Naomi Campbell and Kate Moss back to back, a natural phenomenon that makes nearly a silhouette) and the gap between the ‘polite’ (pronounced pol-eet—come at me, Chambers Dictionary) and the people been so large. And what finally revealed this gap and shone a light on it, starting the same kind of rumblings that caused Louis XIV to lose his head, was Brexit.

On June 30, 2016, Britain voted literally to cut off its nose to spite its face, as the Leave community just about stumbled over the line (shout out Cambridge Analytica, remember those guys? Ah. Fun gang.) Here in Britain, the First Past the Post voting system, or Whoever Shouts Loudest, I Liked His Tie Better, whatever you want to call it—ensured we entered a two-years-and-counting vortex of Brexit insanity. Thing is, we didn’t know what we were really voting for, and just what a juicy bone we had handed to our government.

As you know, we have a big old palace in West London, where our serious shit ™ is discussed. In more recent years, it has been called the Westminster Bubble, not only for the fact that the silverware the elected representatives of the people are served their foie gras on, in total, could pay for the ‘garden bridge’ a living, green thing over the Thames, we were pointlessly dangled, just like the blonde gibbon that dangled himself from a doomed zipwire a few years previous—codename Boris Johnson—at a wholesome 58.5 milli. The upper class of which Boris belonged—his type are literally bred for power, forget Desperate Housewives buying school places, this is done in the daylight brother—got their faces all over our TV screens that Brexit was good and right, austerity is totally still working so shut up about it, and eat your bread crust soup, while I continue to live like Kim K (post Kanye) and things will stay the same as they have always been mmmkay?

I mean. That was all pretty biased, but the facts are there. That’s classic essay right: argument, set up, rant, conclusion? Anyway, from 2016 we’ve survived on a diet of Brexit. It has been discussed from every possible angle, it has spawned a thousand new terms, caused untold division, constipated the house of commons (our supreme court with more jeering like school classrooms—AW-DER AW-DERRR etc) revealed the nasty underbelly of racism, anti-Semitism, Islamaphobia etc that has always existed in Britain and made the fat cats richer, and the MPs on TV more. MUCH more.

I could discuss all that, I really could. But instead, I think often about one tiny slip up some MP, I’ve forgotten his name, made the day after Brexit on local radio. Friends, he called it ‘breakfast.’ He literally did. He called it 'breakfast,' and I think I’ll still be thinking about that on my deathbed. I was in the kitchen, having my breakfast and I stood there, wanting to rewind time. Did he say… what I thought he said? Does he get paid so much and drive around in armoured cars to say… breakfast instead of Brexit? I remember it so vividly, standing by the window toast slathered in Marmite, nearly to my lips.

Now, US friends, here comes the rub, the secondary point to this very well written, researched and erudite ‘essay’ so listen up: Marmite—a national preserve that’s yeasty, saltier than Nancy Pelosi’s slow clap, and black and gloopy as tar. Listen, I don’t know either, but I could eat a tub of it. Roughly half the population makes sure they never run out of it, and the other wouldn’t piss on it if it were on fire. Its tagline: ‘You Either Love It Or You Hate It.’

Kinda like Brexit. Any way to cause division, Brits eat up that shit. And we have gotten so good at our Marmite Battles, I think the loss of it specifically being imported into the UK will light the match on rebellion; proper taking to the streets, jumping on cars and looting kind of stuff. Hear me out:

How Marmite is Like Brexit And The Loss of It Will Make Britain Implode:

1. You Love It Or You Hate It.
2. So dark you can’t see the bottom of it/it’s end.
3. Close relationship to a tar pit. Once you get in, you literally need Wesley, from ‘The Princess Bride,’ to help you out.
4. Very salty.
5. Very yeasty
6. People get VERY edgy about it at dinner parties
7. It’s as British as rain and disappointment
8. It makes no sense as the thing it’s supposed to be used for.
9. Due to the ties we’re about to cut with the rest of the world, we’ll need to stock up not only on this, but also insulin, bananas, and sorry, but we’re keeping Stanley Tucci. We don’t make the rules.

So in concision, what can we er, conclude? Don’t trust the people with a vote, don’t trust the people you vote for, don’t vote, stay inside, eat Marmite on toast. I guess. Former Angry Young Man, and now Pissed Off Old White Dude of rock, and former The Who frontman Roger Daltrey was minding his grumpy business on the side of a football field (the one with feet) expecting, quite rightly to be asked about the game, he instead got a question on touring the world after Brexit. His response: “Aw do me a favour! Fuckin ell as if we weren’t touring the EU before fucking Brexit! If you wanna be ruled by the mafia, go ahead!’ and storming off in grey-white fury.

Chill out mate. Here, have some Marmite. That’ll make everything better…