ABHI Brexit Update: Flextension Time?
During the early part of our adult lives, not that we would have recognised it as such at the time, my inner circle of friends and I had a theory. It was that time between leaving home in our late teens and achieving some semblance of maturity in our early to mid-20s. I do maintain, though, that men basically “stop” at 25.
As we stumbled along, wrecking relationships and making bad life decisions, we believed we had empirically identified a condition to which we had befallen. Of course, we had not, nothing under the sun is new and previous generations would have shared the same joke. But it made us feel clever for a while, grown up, self-aware. Us men, we concluded, all possessed a self-destruct button. A great, big red shiny thing right there in the middle of the dashboard. Written on it, in letters visible from space, were the words “Do Not Press.” A clear, simple instruction. The problem was that it was big and red and shiny and telling us not to do something. In our testosterone hypertrophied, alcohol addled brains, it also begged an obvious question. “I wonder what happens if?”
Through various periods of time something, or someone, would be sufficiently distracting, and temptation would be abated, but the big, red shiny thing remained in our eye lines. Eventually, inevitably, foolishly, we would succumb. And then, BANG! Another reason to go out and obliterate our short-term memories.
Having followed the Brexit process for what certainly feels most of my (hopefully) middle adult life, I have reached the considered conclusion that parliamentarians possess the same red button. Faced with doing something that would result in them having at least some idea of what would happen next, or pursuing a course of action, the consequences of which were entirely unpredictable, they have consistently chosen the latter. It gives us all something to talk about I suppose.
The latest case law to support my revised theorem has been coming thick and fast since last Friday. Granted, and as we discussed last time, the decision of the Government to consider only half of what is necessary to facilitate our Exit from the EU, was not uncontroversial. Some even suggested that it was illegal, for others, conspiracy theories abounded. This was a precise to the hardest of hard Brexits. We would be led by who knows which Tory hardliner intent on turning us into a low wage, regulation free banana republic. It was a leap of faith. The Government would change the law to stop Parliament having a say in what our future relationship with the EU would look like. And so on. But had they supported the Government they would at least have known that next Friday we would be moving in to a transition / implementation period. As it was, they kept everyone, not least the EU, guessing.
And so to Monday in the Fun House, where it was time to play another round of the Pink Post-It Note game. This time we were down to four options. Surely? Surely not. It almost allowed me a Frankie Howerd gag, but instead it was nay, nay and thrice nay. And nay again. However, Oliver Letwin was rather enjoying himself and wanted another go. It resulted in an evening of remarkable votes on Wednesday night. MPs voted on playing again next Monday and it was a score draw. 310 each, giving Speaker Bercow the casting vote. His decision was one I would have lost my house on. He went with the Government, so the Pink Post-It Notes go back in the box.
But Letwin was not entirely done. He had teamed up with FLL on a Bill to force the Government to extend Article 50. Now this is legislation. A new Law, not a non-legally binding motion. The PM would have to propose the length of the extension which would then be debated in the Commons next week. The Bill passed its final reading in the Lower House. Just. 213 plays 212. Thursday saw it enter the Lords with rumours that there would be attempts at filibusting (talking the Bill out) by Tory Peers. It got quite nasty, and personal, actually. The Times described it as a broken beer bottle fight in an old people’s home. There was talk of an all-night sitting, but in the end a deal was struck, the nurses summoned, and they will come back and take it through the final stages on Monday.
In the meantime, it got distinctly weirder. The PM opened discussions with Jeremy Corbyn, aimed as far as I can see, at trying again to convince him that her deal is the best deal. Tory Brexiters were incredulous. Rees-Mogg, Duncan-Smith and others would have had their GPs worried such was the reaction to the PM seeking to negotiate with Marxists rather than members of her own Party. The two leaders are still talking as I write, but any compromise is likely to involve customs unions (I did tell you about this ages ago) and second referendums. Either would trigger even more Ministerial resignations. I know I am supposed to stay on top of these things, but, honestly, I have lost track of who has gone.
Lest we forget in all this to and fro, we are due to leave with no deal next Friday. Of course, we will not. The EU, thankfully, created space for a Plan B for us. This morning, the PM has written to Donald Tusk asking for a further extension until 30th June. It is an odd date, and an odd move. Timed of course to avoid newly elected British MEPs having to take their seats. Although the PM has had to acknowledge that preparations for EU elections on 23rd May are now being made. Whether or not the EU will agree to a firm date remains to be seen, the talk overnight was a so called “Flextension” being tabled by Brussels. A longer delay with the option for the UK to leave earlier once the Fun House ratifies a deal. All eyes then on Wednesday when the PM will find out what the EU thinks about it all at the emergency summit ahead of Brexit Day on Friday.
Official guidance on exit readiness continues to pour out, and all the relevant stuff is on our web page, so do review it regularly.
So many things to point you to this week, but you may have missed the fact that Parliament was suspended yesterday because of water pouring in to the Chamber. Probably not unexpected in a building that, had it not been the Palace of Westminster, would have been condemned years ago. But apparently it was not accidental, and someone has claimed responsibility.
Elsewhere, I fear I have been outed. Whitehall officials are monitoring the household food shopping of U.K. citizens in response to no-deal Brexit fears. They look for signs of stockpiling or other behavior that might require government intervention in the food supply chain. I feel a little better, as Eleanor Goodman speaking on the Today programme, as I drove to the office this morning, admitted the same offence. Stockpiling dog food. Every time I go home there seems to be another bag of it in the hall. When the lights go out, the trains stop running and there is no fresh food on supermarket shelves, at least our Rottie will be well fed.
