As an olive oil, and not a lard man, I woke-up on 24 June and thought ‘Bonjour, tristesse’. Then I slept on it, woke up on 25 June and thought of John Milton. The blind poet once dreamt that his sight was restored and his dead wife was alive. And he woke up to find himself still a blind widower. Brexit was like that for me: a bad dream that did not disperse with the dawn.
It’s very sad. There’s a marvellously untranslatable German word Sehnsucht, which suggests that feeling of otherness sometimes felt in places or before works of art. A state-of-mind that is felt mostly as a vague, but perplexing, sense of loss. With Brexit, there’s a bittersweet, I am sorry I really mean agro-dolce, feeling that we have uninvited ourselves from the best party on the bloc.
And, talking of loss, the 75% of young voters who wanted to Remain have lost opportunities to work and live in 27 different countries. I hope the provincial bigots on Teesside have a plan to recompense dispossessed youth. I wonder if Sunderland and Boston realise that when they lose their hated Polish shops, it will mean they have no shops at all since the ethnic British probably lack the enterprise to open them.