I have not been blogging for a while, as I've been rather busy tasting a fine new liqueur, made from the tears of the defeated, mixed with the most precious of snowflakes. The over 17 million who voted to free our country from the claws of Brussels will long sip this heady concoction, so long as the defeated continue to disgrace themselves by their reactions to that defeat.
To be defeated is not to be disgraced, of course. My father stood on Luneburg Heath in 1945 and saw the German army streaming in to surrender, but he told me years later that he and his mates had given cigarettes to their opposite numbers on the other team. The Germans were in good order to the end, and they didn't whine or plead, but kept their heads held high and thus earned the sympathy of men like my dad all those years ago.
In 1985 the British miners marched back to work behind their banners and similarly in good order. Defeated, yes, but never disgraced, they were the Brigade of Guards of the British working class, and even in defeat they were magnificent.
Can anybody have any respect for the pathetic whiners who were handed their arses on a plate last Thursday? I think not, and that is why we now call them snowflakes, because they melt so engagingly in the heat of the political sun.
We can understand their anger, because it is understandable. They had everything going for them, from the backing of the state machine, the support of the international machinery of globalised capitalism, a sizeable chunk of the press and an eager percentage of the population who preferred cheap mobile 'phone calls when abroad to freedom. Sadly they all forgot that a people who would trade mobile phone calls for liberty deserve neither the calls nor the liberty.
However, what we cannot understand is the whining. They can hardly whimper about the elderly betraying the young when so few of the young actually bothered to vote in the referendum. The argument that the vote coincided with university vacations and the poor snowflakes were thus disenfranchised is not a reason, it is a pathetic excuse. They could have made a simple telephone call and in five minutes changed their voting addresses, but they could not be bothered. My next door neighbour was cursing that he had been called into hospital at short notice and that it was too late to arrange a postal vote, however he was discharged on voting day as his operation was cancelled, so he went straight from the hospital to the polling booth to vote Leave. He suffers from bladder cancer, by the way, but he doesn't whine about that.
The claim that by these snowflakes that we have somehow ruined their chances of getting jobs in the EU is similarly pathetic. Just how many of this bunch have the language skills needed to take a tasty position in Germany, or the degree from a decent, Russell Group university that would allow for that, anyway? Here's the thing: people with good language skills and a reasonable degree from Oxford, Manchester or Edinburgh will always find a cushy number abroad if that is what they want. People who have to go to institutions that disgrace the very name university, and who find the tying of their own shoelaces an intellectual challenge, are probably never destined for anything other than a local government sinecure.
The whine that I enjoy the most is the one that has it that we baby boomers had it all when we were young and now we are ruining it for Generation Snowflake. The problem is that we are the generation that left school at 15, fought tooth and nail to ensure that management scum knew their place, and just at the moment when the final victory against capitalism itself seemed imminent, were voted onto the dole by the parents of today's snowflakes.
Speaking for myself alone, I went from the dole to university when I was pushing thirty in 1983, and five years later was told that I needed some post-graduate degree to even get an interview. So I spent a year back on the dole and then went off and got a post-graduate something or other. Then I was told that I was too old to apply for any decent job and too well qualified for the lesser ones. So I bought myself a catering wagon and sold burgers and hot dogs to drunks before cutting my losses and going to live in Mexico. If you are destined to be poor, then trust me when I say that it is better in a warm climate. Luckily I had a diploma from Ruskin College, Oxford, a degree from the University of Manchester and the wit to teach myself Spanish, so I accept that this may be out of reach for the average poly wallah, but at least they can become social workers or something equally useless and parasitical.
Let me conclude by saying that people who could not be bothered to vote are now telling people like me who have had a lifetime of being done over by the state which their parents supported, that we have somehow wrecked their life chances. Can you blame us for sipping the fine liqueur made up of the tears of pathetic snowflakery when all they can come up with is such a total whining response to their well merited defeat?