We’ve Voted Leave. Well, some did, the rest of us – admittedly along with some regretful Vote Leavers – are sitting here indulging in some good old fashioned lamentation.
We’re cringing after Nigel Farage’s appearance at the EU parliament yesterday, as he gleefully gloated over the result. He might as well have yelled ner nicky ner ner, and pulled Jean-Claude Juncker’s trousers down.
We’re cringing, too, over Juncker’s retort to Farage’s slow clap: “why are you here?”.
We’re cringing over Sunday roasts with our divided families, hoping when the conversation switches to politics it won’t leave as foul a taste in one’s mouth as a Brussels sprout (a vegetable with new levels of symbolism).
I know one bloke whose girlfriend is about to invoke her own Article 50 after he voted Leave. She’s not actually interested in his rationale, which is actually very sensible and intellectual. Instead, blinded by rage, all she sees is a new-found common ground with the Racist Right.
But, most of all, we’re cringing because, to the rest of the world, we look like idiots without a plan. It doesn’t really matter, now, how you voted. The sad fact is there’s no one grabbing this by the horns. We’re dangling in limbo and Article 50 has become a political hot potato. We’re up poo creek and not a single person has appeared with anything resembling a paddle.