The chair of shame

I have a tendency for ridiculous superstition. Even though I know perfectly well that there can be no possible connection between the socks I wear, or the order I put them on, or a lucky coin, and unrelated events on a sports field, I’m not going to mess with a winning formula while correlation, not causation, weaves its magic spell.

On this basis I am convinced that Brexit is doomed just so long as I have my lucky pen
with me. It seemed impossible that it wouldn’t go ahead just after the vote, and even quite recently you would struggle to find anyone who thought it could be stopped, but the more shrilly that Theresa states that this deal is in the national interest, and it is this or no Brexit, the more people think “tell me again about this second option you mentioned ‘.

The pen stays until the whole thing collapses.