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?