Warming Up

Brexit is starting to look like it might possibly have been a bad idea, though personally I think the problem was that it wasn’t hard enough. But the jury is still out, apparently with some saying that if we just wait 50 or 60 years we’ll really start to reap the benefits, so let’s be patient guys,

I think that we should make a big statue of all the main players in Brexit - Farage, Gove and Johnson for sure, but stick in Rees-Mogg and any of the others that really got behind this thing - and put it in Parliament Square so that people of the future will know who was responsible for it and let history decide. I can’t see why anyone would object to that. If it was such a good idea, that will take a mere few decades to start working, then those statues will be venerated by the ragbag of survivors in the late 21st Century. If not, of course, then people might chuck shit at the statues, but at least they will know who to blame. They can all hold signs saying that the others didn’t do Brexit properly if necessary. I’d be proud to have my statue amongst them, tweeting that whatever Brexit anyone had come up with, it simply had to be harder to work.

Brexit did of course turn out to be harder than the supporters said it would be at the start. They always said it would be easy, but I told you it would be diamond hard.

It’s kind of funny. But only if you live in Russia.

I took Ernie to a birthday party this afternoon and it’s occasions like this that make me glad I don’t drink anymore. Getting through the two hours without a hangover is pretty tricky, so imagine how tough it was for the parents who’d been drinking. Though to be fair, if I had been drunk during the party it might have been easier. I had the mild hangover of having been on the road yesterday, so was a bit groggy, which at least meant I fitted in. The kids were all four or five, which meant every five minutes one would run up to their parent and say “That boy pushed me” or “that girl stuck her tongue out at me”. Ernie got very tearful about an incident that he wasn’t fully able to describe, but seconds later would be running off and playing with the child that had slighted him (or that he’d slighted, who knows?). This was the inflatable party that Ernie himself had had, but before that he’d been at someone else’s party and fallen head first on to the floor off a pretty high inflatable wall. There is now a crash mat along that side of the inflatable which I called the Ernie Herring Memorial Crash Mat. His stupidity may have saved other stupid children in the future. Luckily the blow to the head doesn’t seem to have made him any more silly than before, maybe it counteracted another blow on the head that he’d previously had.

It was fun having a daddy/son afternoon (Catie had somehow wangled her way out of this one) and we had a fun race back to the car and I let him crack on eating his bag of sweets. He is always keen to share too - his sister is very protective of her sweets and toys - so I had a couple of Flumps. Which is at least acceptable when you have a child, rather than when you’re a single 39 years old man walking around Shepherd’s Bush. If someone had told me then that having kids was an official way of eating Flumps and no one being able to judge you, and if I had immediately found someone willing to have a child with me that instant (which was pretty unlikely to be fair as I think I was single then) I could have a 15 year old kid by now. Admittedly they probably wouldn’t have given me any Flumps today, but maybe some drugs, so I would still be winning.