Solving and ruining the Falklands dispute

So we welcome in the new year... with some old news. Once again, the Argentinian President Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner (see, I do research!) has demanded that Britain hand over the Falkland Islands. By this point, I think this is the third or forth time in a year, but I could definitely be wrong, on account of repeated demands all blurring together in one big ball of stupid boring pomp.

My feelings exactly, captain.

And boring it is. If we break things down into simplicity's sake, possession is nine tenths of the law and our nation likes it's little windswept frozen rocks in the middle of nowhere. Look at Gibraltar, for example. It reminds us of a time we actually mattered. (And yes, I will be calling those islands the Falklands for this article under that whole 'possession is ninth tenths' thing, as if you're sitting on it and not currently oppressing the hell outta it, it's yours to call what you damn want. Anyway...) Who owned what and when breaks down to who's sitting on it now. Kinda hard to move people outta their homes. I mean, do it without their consent, and according to Deep Space Nine, they'll turn into the Marquis.

Seeing the only tactic available Kirchner is to annoy us into giving it up, that windswept frozen rock is going to remain ours forever. I mean, they could try jumping in with the Argentinian military, but... yeah... that doesn't sound promising. For starters, their military is still using equipment from the 1970s, and flared jeans don't cut shit next to the British army's newest missiles that are so up to date they tweet obscenities to the troops it's about to land on. Secondly, it's a fight my country would love. None of this guerrilla tactics nonsense, did-we-or-didn't-we-shoot-a-civilian-moral-quandary, nope! No murky grey areas. You have a uniform, I have a uniform, you have a gun that has a near equal chance of firing backwards as it does forwards, I have a gun that fire eight hundred times a minute whilst uploading photos to Instagram, let's do this. The British love of the underdog does not extend when it is felt the underdog is acting like an royal arse. When you think about it, last time this actually went nasty and we had a real bloody war, they were invading an far-flung barely registered province, and we kinda only responded as we had a deeply unpopular Tory prime minister, desperately seeking a way to distract the proles from a bad economy with a jingoistic war, while today in charge we have... a deeply unpopular Tory prime minister... desperately seeking a way to distract the proles from a bad economy and OH DEAR.

In a show of colossal immaturity from both sides, we exchanged public letters in newspapers. Kirchner published hers in The Independent and The Guardian, which guaranteed it would be read by no less than eight people. So The Sun shot one back, and er... look, The Sun? From the first line, you looked along the path you were going to take, and perhaps you saw the far off lands of Tact and Class glittering in the distance. It would have been nice to proceed towards them at a brisk pace rather than doing your usual, which was an abrupt one-eighty, leaping off the Cliffs of Stupidity into the Sea of Embarrassment before impalement on the Rocks of Why Would You Do That. 'Hands Off?' Seriously? Seriously. That's what you went for. Just... just... ugh. Ugh. UGH. I ugh at you, good sir.

I don't even want to know how the first draft of that turned out. The sheer weight of racist terms probably broke the once-unfeeling computer into weeping.

But let's be all about the spirit of fairness here. We're not all jingoistic heathens, champing at the bit to give Argentina a bloody nose if they keep looking at the Falklands funny. What I'm about to do, is propose a one hundred percent guaranteed method for you, yes you Argentina, to get a hold of those delicious delicious penguin-infested windswept frozen rocks.

The tabloids will call for my public hanging.

First of all, you keep demanding for Britain to open negotiations about the dispute over the Falklands. Now, that's fine, but we keep saying no, yet you keep doing repeating the same demand without changing a beat. Sort of like a child trying to wear down a parent with stamina because they don't yet get logic. That is not a good tactic. So we've said, no, right? Now the thing is, that's not entirely accurate. We've said not a general, blank, 'no negotiations,' but the much more open in wiggle-room, 'no negotiations without the Falkland Islanders say so.' Those two statements are completely fucking different. You're immediate response to that said line should not have been to keep repeating yourself and stamping your foot, but to get Davy Cameron to repeat that, slowly, into a microphone, recording it carefully, before running off cackling manically.

Yes, my plan allows for some maniacal cackling. That's how you know it's gonna work.

The next step, I must admit, is pure genius.

It involves hookers, booze, lots of blank Argentina passports and several metric fucktonnes of cocaine, heroin, and anything those darn kids are snorting, huffing, injecting or ingesting these days.

Oh, yeah.

You take said things. You load them into a cruise liner. You charge it into the Falkland Islands beaches. You then jump out brandishing a megaphone, yelling, 'WHO LOVES ARRRRRRRR~GEN~TIIIINAAAA!?!'

That's pretty much it. You pass booze and pills out in a wave of good feelings. Don't have a drink good sir? Have five! Have attractive women wander the pubs, going, 'Gosh, you're really hot. Man, if it turned out you really liked Argentina, I would starting humping your lap right the hell now,' and, 'You know what really, really turns me on? So much I just have to do some terribly dirty things to whomever is closest? Telling me just how awesome Argentina is.' A week or so later, after you're cleaning up the mess, running low on booze and you're hastily burying the last OD'd hooker, tell everyone that you'd love to come back, every month or so, but only, gosh, just only, only if the damn paperwork wasn't so difficult. I mean, you're technically British, we're Argentinian, it's the borders paperwork, man. Ugh. It's a nightmare. It's like, forty pages of contradictions in triplicate. This was a one off. Well. Unless. You know. You were Argentinian. Then no forms. Then we'd be back every month. Hell, this party? It would never end.

I mean, come on. The Falklands is nothing but freezing wind and penguins. They'll go for it. And once they'd signed the referendum in your favour, you'd take that the Davy Cameron... who'd say no. Again. But this time, with an island full of people going into withdrawal desperate for their fix, Davy would lose his last moral standpoint, and he'd cave eventually once everyone started tsking at him and muttering. The sweet part is, once the referendum is in, you even have to to follow through with these promises once they've voted. Psst. Suckers.

Sure, it'd be expensive, but remember what started this in the first place? The oil. You want that oil. Gotta spend money to make money. Instead, what you've done is pissed of the locals. Whether it's your stupid  Olympics advert white-washing them out of existence, (classy touch, jumping up and down on the damn Falklands war memorial you morons) or the blockade forces them into egg rationing, every time those Islanders that hold your chances look down at breakfast and only see one poached egg, they think:

'If it wasn't for those Argie bastards I could have two poached eggs, like an actual human being.'

Yeah. You've kinda screwed the pooch on this one. Well, you got one, maybe two months left before the referendum. Still might be doable if you hurry.

So there. I have done it. I have solved the Falklands dispute, or now, the Las Malvinas dispute. So now is time to embrace True Neutral, and now discuss how to break the peace.

Look, Davy Cameron. I don't like you. No one likes you. But. You want people to like you. You need people to like you. You want to be in charge without the Traitor King cluttering up your cabinet room. So. What you need to do is this:

Pick up your phone. Call President Kirchner. Sing into the phone in a high pitched voice, 'I've got Falklands, and you do noooo~oooot.' Do this at three in the morning local time. Do it whenever you get bored in cabinet meetings. Do this whilst in the quiet moments you're being chaffered places. Here is a selection of things to say:

'Want the Falklands? Well you can't have it. 'Cos it's mine.'
'God your country sucks. You know what doesn't suck? Penguins. Which I have. On the Falklands.'
'You know, if you had the nerve, your army could probably take the Falklands. But you won't, will you? Wuss.'
'Las Malvinas? More like Las Notyoursnas! Ha! Did you get it? No? Ah, don't worry about it. Ponder it on your retreat on the Falklands OH WAIT.'

Basically take your cue from the average decorum displayed by The Sun. But most importantly; deny doing this. Deny, deny, deny. Even when faced by evidence, deny. Claim you'd never do something so immature.
And when two months of childish taunting breaks their will and they attack, have the army repulse them and ride into a new term on a wave of patriotic glee.












Huh.

That actually really could work, and I'd be responsible for a new term of Tory bullshit.

Crapbaskets.