Sunday, 10 July 2016
It's been a depressing day. Nathan was gigging, and I was at home contemplating the fact that I've lost my mojo whilst wondering what Brexit will actually mean for this country, worrying what would happen if the gay-hating Andrea Leadsome became Prime Minister, wishing I had a job, wishing I had the energy to write some music, panicking that if I do write something it will be rubbish, thinking that it doesn't matter anyway because even if I write something brilliant, the economy is collapsing and the first thing that gets cut is the arts. I have started to realise with great horror that talking to people who voted Brexit is like talking to born again Christians: no amount of sense or logic will make them do anything but glaze over and look at me with pity because they know something that I don't know. I sent three documents to one of my Brexit voting friends today. Has she read them and got back to me? Has she fuck! I wonder if any of them are secretly panicking yet. Talk amongst my European lawyer friends suggests that our only ally in Europe, and our only hope for a decent financial deal with Europe on the back of this is (ironically) Germany. The French and Belgians are up for causing us as much trouble as they can. "The Brits were never really in Europe" they rightly say, "they caused a huge amount of bother when they deigned to join us so fuck it, let's punish them." The Calais district of France is run by the National Front, so the moment we come out of Europe, the very first thing we can expect to happen is for them to provide boats for all the migrants in Calais to come to the UK, so, for the first time in God knows how long, we shall have camps of migrants living on UK soil. Ireland is fucked because of the sheer amount of trade it does with the U.K. In order to keep global businesses on British soil, domestic taxes will rise. The poor will get poorer and they'll turn to fringe right wing parties. There will be class war. A civil war perhaps. A world war when someone steps in to stop the march of fascism, except the good guys won't be be UK this time round. We'll be the ones invading Ireland or using violence to force the Scots to remain in the Union. On and on it goes. The shock waves reverberate and yet still the Brexit voters seem incapable of breaking into a sweat. Perfectly placid. Self-righteous. Telling the thinkers of this world that they're bad losers. Accusing us of not understanding the concept of democracy. It's like it's a giant game. You can see them laughing smugly to themselves, "we really whipped their arses this time, didn't we?" And of course they're behaving like that: For way too long, public voting in this country has been about who your favourite wannabe celebrity is, rather than anything serious, so we've got used to using our votes to punish people like Simon Cowell when they're not humble enough or they get too big for their boots. We vote for the shittiest act, or go out and buy a terrible single just so the underdog charity act can make it to the Christmas number one. I hate it. I hate being British right now. I hate feeling so small in the world. I hate feeling like a laughing stock. I hate feeling mediocre. I plainly have nothing constructive to write, so I will sign off before my head explodes in a bag of self pity.