Not long ago, to support Great Britain’s departure from the European Union remained the hoppy heady preserve of the corduroyed English fruitcake.
Only the niche, and utterly mental clung to such opinions. Those trifling oddities, blimpish and better suited to reliving colonial exploits in faraway lands, were not of polite society. To be a Euroskeptic invited the label of weirdo, or, if they liked you—“eccentric.”
That argument was settled. Britain, and indeed the world, owed and pinned its future not to outdated concepts such as nationhood, borders, or common culture—oddities, pined for by oddities. To be British was embarrassing, and old hat.
David Cameron, our ex-prime minister, an alleged conservative, pretended himself to share this turbulence of brain. That Euroskepticism. Until he won his leadership election. Then he called such people, “fruitcakes, loonies, and closet racists.”
Then he called for a European referendum. To settle the issue for generations. To smite, finally, those surely dwindling numbers of decaying old white men who still believed in that fatuous list of oddities they held so pathetically dear.
Of course, the weirdos won. And ever since, the Camerons of this world have worked tirelessly to overturn our decision.
Like Cameron, those who would overturn us only expressed their real opinions of us within the confines of their circle of tony friends at their tony parties, safe in distance of ear and eye, from the troglodytes whom cannot be taken seriously.
That was at least until 17.4 million British people had the temerity to vote to leave the European Union.
Then their real opinions gushed out, a thick unadulterated contempt for millions of people who, I suspect, were mildly aghast to learn that they didn’t get what they were voting for. That their apparent lack of education meant they couldn’t decipher a 16-word question.
Because our betters know better. They’re “progressive.” And born to rule.
We didn’t understand when the Remain campaign insisted a vote for Leave would make us all $5,700 a year worse-off. We didn’t grasp the apparent fact that half-a-million people would immediately lose their jobs. We blithely ignored the expert premonition of a phantom “instant recession.”
Of course, none of Project Fear happened.
We voted to leave anyway. But perhaps we didn’t listen to our betters because for most of us, things couldn’t really get much worse. Most of us haven’t seen a real wage increase in decades. Jobs for life, are now jobs of strife, as the gig economy faintly rewilds the industrial deadlands.
They’ve played the same game for almost three years. Without a deal, they insist, quite hilariously, that Britain will run out of medicine and cheese. We won’t eat. Sexually transmitted diseases will rocket. Wages, the economy, jobs, all kaput. If we dare upturn this rigged system, all shall perish.
To spare us this trauma, elites have worked tirelessly to overturn Brexit “for our own good.” In truth, the plebs voted against their interests. That’s what they really mean by that sickly old trope.
This week, in what was the most embarrassing spectacle of elite desperation, our betters took off the table what most of their citizens want.
No-deal Brexit, or Brexit to most outside of the London bubble, doesn’t induce the same fatal panic which depraves our betters. Most Britons, sick to the marrow with this putrid elitist revolt, back no-deal. Our betters voted to kill that idea. They also voted to extend our leaving date. We’re not going anywhere.
We are now bequeathed with two choices. Back Prime Minister Theresa May’s deal to half-leave the EU. Or not leave at all. That 600-page suicide note heads for its third vote next week. It will die. Again. And our betters of both parties will feign concern. As if this wasn’t the plan all along. Would you like your vomit warmed up, sir?
One friend of mine who, like most, voted Leave is more than happy with the prospect of no-deal.
“We voted Leave three years ago. It’s not that hard to understand. We’ve been screwed over for decades, anyway. Not like it can get much worse,” he said, echoing a sentiment common across the contours of this once-great Britain.
I heard much the same, last year, during a visit to New York. Ordinary New Yorkers may not have celebrated President Trump’s louche demeanor, but they all knew which side he was on. Many did revel in his brawlish instincts. He was sticking it to the betters. After all, it’s nice to see a bully get a kicking. Isn’t it?
And that is why British elites, and their American tendrils, detest both Brexit and Trump. Both are an existential threat to the status quo. Witness their demented behavior. It’s the animations of the near-fatally wounded.
The fanatics care not about the working-class, the poor, nor the middle. They care not for minorities. They care for themselves. The beauty of 2016 removed that mask of faux-compassion. Deep down, they know it’s over.
Since that turbulent year, cross-party elites on both sides of the Atlantic have worked feverishly to overturn democracy. You think the progressives actually give one hoot about minorities? If they did, they’d laud the president’s record in buoying those boats. They’d applaud his trade policies. They’d back immigration-by-merit.
Perhaps you’ve noticed a pattern. Progressives brand anyone with the gall to question unfettered trade, unhindered immigration, and unfiltered thought as racist or parochial. Insinuate that such people are mentally incapable. Hence, they must domesticate the grazing herd. Overrule their bovine whims.
But it’s alright, everything is alright. And this circus is delicious in its own way. We aren’t yet donning yellow vests and raining down bricks. We don’t yet have to. The struggle might not be finished. But we, the fruitcakes and the deplorables—the ordinary—have already won.
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