There you go

Day 69: 1 clementine, passion fruit yogurt with psyllium husks, seeds, honey and banana; 1 Ritter sport extra dark chocolate bar; 1 fennel; whisky.

I know you’ve been waiting for it. I certainly have. In fact, I’ve been pondering about Brexshit throughout this project. This blog could have been about Brexshit and its flatulent ramifications. I did play with that thought for a while. I tried to find ways to somehow include this impending disaster, especially because of the timing: I will leave the boat on the supposed Brexit day – a boatexit! – 29th March. But in the end, it didn’t happen. Love won. Love always wins over everything. Or it should, in theory, according to popular belief. Although it obviously didn’t, in the case of Brexshit. In the case of Brexshit, love lost and shit won. Which is a bit of an oversimplification, but maybe not. So here we are.

I bet some of you, who although are probably not reading this, would have preferred I styled my blog around Brexishit. It would have been a bit more serious. A bit more politically and socially engaged. Well, I didn’t do it that way though. Because what was I gonna say? People who voted for Brexshit are racists. That’s it. Don’t give me all that crap about the people disenfranchised in the North and we people in London live in the bubble bla bla bla. Yeah sure, I’m not denying that. But they’re still racists. So fuck off. You see, then I get all pissed off. Imagine a whole 90 days of that shit. Nah. Instead you’ve been delighted, week after week, with stories about my broken heart, liquid poos and how, basically, I have no idea what love is. Romantic long-lasting love, that is. I think, though, that I’ve started to understand better what love in general is and to practice it on a part-time basis (because the other part of the time I work for the Daily Mail). And I can’t explain to you quite yet what I’ve understood, but I know one thing for sure: love is not Brexshit and, in case you’re confused, Brexhit is not love.


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