But where are we going…

Like living in a Monty Python sketch that isn’t remotely funny, the UK has unleashed forces of chaos beyond anything it imagined would happen. If only the big foot would appear and stamp us back to sense.

The United in United Kingdom was always slightly wishful, like calling an aggressive dog Serena. But it worked, and we burbled along, united more or less and without having to debate how we really felt about our nation every minute of the day. Scotland’s go at leaving two years ago petered out after the vote without grave consequence, despite continuing calls to rethink it.

But this week here, and all across the islands, the united feeling is gone. Citizens voted in or out—as stark a difference as being male or female, or a bird or a bee. And while there are many shades, and points of view, and arguments to be made, one’s neighbour, friend, relative may in this regard be the total opposite.

If it wasn’t for the chaos and crisis that now engulfs us like poisonous fog, reconciliation might be easier. But there is, as I write, no government leader on either side, nor is there any plan whatsoever for what to do now we’ve to cut ourselves from the mainland, though nearly half the populace didn’t vote for it, and many who did wish they hadn’t.

The collective regret is enough to fill a small ocean, next to the Sea of Sadness on the Coast of Anger. How did we as a nation manage such a feat of stupidity?

Source: DS

A disaster a day keeps the newsman in play. Can we reclaim our peace of mind by saying no to terror, by saying no to feeling terrorised? Will our world allow it?

I was in Paris once, in a restaurant, when a bomb went off downstairs. It detonated in the ladies’ loo, from where my stepmum had just returned. Luckily no-one was seriously hurt. One woman went to hospital with an ear injury, and, according to the news report, two waiters too. This was in 1981. It wasn’t a big bomb, but still. Such things happened often enough in Western Europe then and we were strangely, sadly, used to them.

“The first blast occurred shortly after midnight,” UPI News reported the next day, “in a lavatory in the basement of Fouquet’s restaurant on the Champs-Élysées. Two waiters were treated for minor cuts and bruises but damage was reported to be slight. Many customers at the restaurant were unaware of the incident.”

That last bit isn’t true. No-one was unaware. It was a bomb-like noise with injuries and broken glass. But its impact was nevertheless small. We stayed seated at the table and finished our coffee. Maybe that was better than freaking out, or maybe it was because the attack seemed contained and past and we were tourists without homes to go to. The other tables left.

In or out Source: Ellen Photo

Google knows what you like. Google knows what you need. Vote Google.

Basically there won’t be any news out of Britain for the next three months, except endless guff and drilldowns about whether it should leave the European Union. The country decides once and for all on June 23 in a referendum. Until then, prepare for a giant posture-fest of politicos and opinioneers sifting and mulling and mooting and expending billions of words in an exercise of democracy so unpredictable there should be a giant Undo button installed in Parliament Square just in case.

More than anything, it’s a good chance to find out more about what membership actually involves, costs, and offers to the UK, and to gauge how fantastic we could be in the world without Europe telling us what to do all the time. To be fair, we’ve never been that enthusiastic about the whole project, but we have given it a good go.

Young Syrian refugee on the Greek island of Kos. Source: HOS Photomedia

Like King Canute sat on his chair on the surf, Europe’s politicos are helpless before the ever-rising influx of refugees washing up on beaches, hiding in car engines, doing anything and everything to get here.

All year, Europe has been agonising about what to do with the migrants flooding over, nay, desperately crawling in by hook or crook. Each country takes it personally, too, hypersensitive to how their contributions or attractiveness compares to other countries. They want to come to Britain! Of course, they do. It’s so lovely. But it’s ours. They can’t. They can go to Germany, or Sweden. Why don’t they go back home. Let’s make it safe for them at home. Then they won’t want to come here in the first place. But we can’t make it safe at home. Look what happened last time we tried to fix up someone else’s problems, Iraq and all that. Libya! Nooo!

For most people here, east of Europe is now seen as a moving maze of upheaval. A mess far beyond the clearing-up capabilities we pride ourselves on. Wasn’t Syria the enemy? Now we have to help them? What are the Russians doing anyway? What is Isis’ problem?! Add all the countries, one by one, in to the mix – Israel, Pakistan, Sudan, Iran, and so on – and the result is a stew that few can make out.

Yet screens everywhere offer the latest detail. The over-analysis can lead to a focus on trivia, or a numbing to the scale and immediacy of what is happening. But the misery is real and staring us in the face.

And nobody knows what to do.