Just imagine it. You’ve handed in the dissertation that you’ve been working on for months and your supervisor informs you that it’s shit. You then realise that it’s shit. What’s the rational option here? Do you tinker with it, change it around? Do you apologise to your parents, the people who helped get you to university, friends, family? No, you’d just drop out of university with no explanation, wouldn’t you? Well, this was what happened to Mr Raab, from the UK.

I’m currently sitting in a hallway in the Philosophy and Literature Faculty of the University of Granada as a Spanish and Portuguese student doing an Erasmus year. What’s happening in Westminster is too upsetting to relay to my Spanish friends here. I truly believe in a kinder form of politics. I’d like to believe, in fact, that I’ve adopted quite a rational tone in the articles that I’ve written for The Broad in the past. I can’t do that today. I am seething. What is happening is a national betrayal. Today I sympathise with Mrs May, in the same way that you’d sympathise with a horse that’s broken their leg at a hurdle close to the finish line of the Grand National. Everyone knows what’s coming and it’s not her fault. The fault of hers is that she didn’t get rid of the career cynics in her cabinet. Why wasn’t Dominic Raab sacked when he claimed he hadn’t realised the importance of the Dover-Calais crossing to British trade? Why wasn’t Esther McVey sacked when she consistently espoused fabrications about the effects of universal credit? Let’s not even start on the lies espoused by Boris Johnson. Why are these politicians now portrayed as martyrs of the Brexit cause when they’ve essentially run away from the smell of the hot vomit that they’ve spewed onto the heads of the British public? This is a tactic that professional pains-in-the-arse have been employing for over forty years. Hearing Nigel Farage proselytise about lying politicians in a week where he has been incorporated into Robert Mueller’s enquiry is enough to make the most sanguine of commentators punch a wall.

Seemingly, the governmental Brexit brief is too toxic, even, for Michael Gove, the pioneer of conniving, careerist weaselism whose political shithousery would make even Michael Heseltine blush. The worst thing about all this? People who voted against this are told that it’s their fault. I’ve had rolling news coverage on all day. I’ve heard Jacob Rees-Mogg, Nigel Farage, Peter Bone, Henry Smith and others all claim that we should’ve listened to them. As the knives come out within the Conservative party, the party of ‘a strong and stable economy’ that’s caused another run on the pound today and caused Mark Carney, the Governor of the Bank of England, to call an emergency meeting between banks and the central regulator, remainers are still told that it’s their fault. Who’d have thought it’d be so hard to strike a favorable trade deal with the world’s most successful trading bloc? Certainly not Liam Fox, who claimed that negotiations with the European Union would be ‘the easiest in history’. Well, seemingly, just like Davis, Johnson, Raab, McVey and the rest of the merry band of Brexiteers in government, ‘Airmiles Liam’ now has a parachute to avoid the consequences of his actions. He can simply run away. In a sense, it’s a shame. It’s a shame to see him simply wasting the taxpayer’s money by flying around the world and not negotiating trade deals. He could’ve employed his tough tactics in Venezuela, with whom we could get a ‘bespoke’ deal through our ‘special relationship’, united by how much food we have on our supermarket shelves after a no-deal Brexit.

The fact that spoilt children like Rees-Mogg and Farage haven’t got everything on their Christmas wishlist this year isn’t my fault. It’s the fault of reality. As I’ve argued in previous articles on this website, we should allow the likes of Rees-Mogg into government. They need to be held accountable for their words and their actions. I hope a ‘vote of no-confidence’ takes place and that Theresa May is relinquished of this poisoned chalice. The best outcome of this farce of a cartoon nightmare is that the shysters at the ERG could be made to face the squalid mess that they’ve created.

At the end of March, I’ll be studying in Lisbon. I’m not diabetic but it’s reassuring to know that I can stockpile my own insulin while I’m over there, especially given the amount of hormone-enriched beef I’ll be eating when I get back to the UK. For now, however, we can only continue to watch in expectation as the broken horse limps on to Aintree’s finish line with its tired, bleeding arse cheeks mercilessly whipped by a rider void of remorse or sympathy.

All information is correct at the time of writing.