Every now and then, the public consciousness latches onto a new phenomenon wherein two things or ideas collide. And because we as a people don’t like wasting our time with lengthy descriptions, we come up with portmanteaus to cut down on our words. It’s why Brad and Angelina have to be Brangelina. It’s why a set of twins named John and Edward have to be Jedward. It’s why over-the-top acting and dubious CGI is more commonly referred to as Sharknado. I occasionally find myself growing weary of such words, so imagine my horror (or don’t, it’s up to you really) when around three or four months ago, the UK’s media outlets coined a term referring to the potential for a British exit from the European Union.
‘Do not fear,’ said I (to no-one), ‘for this outlandish use of terminology shall not last beyond ye olde referendum of midsummer.’ I then turned, drew an imaginary sword from amongst my suit of chainmail and spoke to mine invisible foe – invisible, because it was a hypothetical construct with no physical form. ‘Comest hither, o accursed “Brexit”, enemy mine, and have at thee with non-existent blade and competent command of language. Thou shalt not last longer than ’tis necessary,’ and so on because I can’t keep this medieval act up any more.
Last week came the day that “Brexit” could’ve been vanquished from the common lexicon. Of course, that would’ve meant casting out “Brexit” in favour of the less common (but equally irritating) “Bremain”, oh and it would’ve sorted out a major nationwide political decision too. Like many in the country, I wished to think that citizens would stick with the status quo, but then again, without hindsight, we wouldn’t have that ability to point and laugh at ourselves back through the space-time continuum.
Where the politics are concerned (to be honest, the language argument was simply an ice breaker), I can see how both sides of the debate have had merits and how both sides have had flaws. Ultimately, I made my conscious decision not based on whether to Remain or Leave, but whether to stick with what we know or to willingly leap into uncertainty. In my carefully thought out, slightly mis-informed, mildly interested view on the whole bloody thing, opting to stay was the lesser of two evils. Or to put it another way, would you prefer to leap into bed with David Cameron and George Osborne or Boris Johnson and Nigel Farage. Quite frankly, if there’d been a third option to favour a jagged rock with an angry face drawn on, I’d have gladly bashed my own skull in with it.
Alas, as the year so far has made fools of us all, so did it continue by dropping us into a storm of the unknown. The great many, who struggled to understand what was happening, came to realise that the powerful few – the ones we look to so they can lead us with their wise and carefully considered decisions – didn’t fucking know what was going on either. Instead, they’ve spent the last week putting the little folk on the back burner, as they squabble amongst themselves, passing on the hard work to one another since nobody seems to feel equipped for doing anything. For the first time, I’ve come to see politicians not as jumped-up suits with all the answers, but as actual, real people who simply don’t know what to do with a decision on this scale and don’t want to get involved in a mountain of shit. They really are just like you and me.
As the grown-ups argue with each other at the big table, us kids down here on the picnic blanket have resorted to having fights of our accord, ranging from young vs. old, educated vs. uneducated, and human vs. racist.
Whilst the old dears in the market towns have largely smiled in reminiscence over patriotic sentiments and how we’re “going back to the good old days” (presumably soundtracked inside their minds by Glenn Miller’s In The Mood), lots of younger people angrily proclaimed that they’d had a glowing and prosperous future taken away from them by older generations. Although considering only a third of under-25s actually managed to show up and draw a cross on a piece of paper, it’s hard to differentiate between those who actually tried to do something about and those who just like moaning at the elderly.
Outrage was caused when correlations were made with voting trends according whether people were university or college educated or not. The self-professed clever people looked down on those who decided not to pursue a life of textbook reading and loan repayments. People were called “idiots” for not thinking about the reasons for voting one way or another. People don’t like being called “idiots”. Only an idiot wouldn’t fight back against that kind of comment on themselves. Leaving school at age 16 doesn’t necessarily make somebody an idiot, just like spending three years (and thousands of pounds you don’t actually have) doesn’t necessarily make one clever. After all, that’s what I did and I still do this shit in my spare time. And considering how this shit has fucked me over on several occasions, I’d have reservations about labelling myself as “clever” since I keep doing stuff like this.
On the whole, Remainers and Leavers made their decisions on the best information they had access to. For some, it was to do with economics. For others, it was a sense of independence and national pride. And for a small faction, the outcome effectively became a licence to spew hatred at each other in the streets. With part of the campaign rhetoric exploiting the predominantly white British hatred of “outsiders”, several of these carbon life forms began to abuse other carbon life forms for being anything other than white British. In spite of the fact that a vote to leave the EU effectively allows stricter control of “outsiders” from Europe, many racist twatbags decided it was a vote to belittle and demean anyone from anywhere in the world, or British nationals with ancestry from anywhere in the world.
‘Black? Get out. Muslim? Get out. Polish? Get out. 2nd generation British-born after your Chinese grandfather and Australian grandmother settled here five decades ago? Get out. We voted you out. Britain for the British only. We’re Great Britain,’ said they without any hint of irony. The twisted arrogance and collective superiority complex of this particular group is exactly what’s not so Great about the British, and while this does come down to only a small proportion of the population, it only takes the extreme attitudes of the few to diminish the reputation of the many. You know, like those foreigners you hate.
There’s no real conclusion to this; it’s all still ongoing. And it saddens me to think that, where the aforementioned youth mourn a potential future they’ve lost, we now get to look ahead to this future instead.
Funkay… (that’s ‘funky’ with an additional ‘a’ in there for reasons I can’t fathom quite yet.)
I don’t mind hip-hop. I don’t listen to it regularly, which is why I’m a little unsure of whether I’m correct in calling this “hip-hop”. Whatever it is, it carries a hopeful (if somewhat oxymoronic) message in its refrain ‘pain will make you better’. I assume this is intended along the lines of that old saying ‘whatever doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger’, but on closer inspection, I find it hard to see how added pain would make any bad situation feel better. I’m overthinking this. Just click the damn thing.
De La Soul feat. Snoop Dogg – Pain
Jamie Walsh 
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