Britain will divide – then reunite to fester in resentment
Last year Theresa May insisted that the nation was “coming together” on Brexit. She was, of course, completely wrong. Britain remains horribly divided, and the two sides are only growing further apart. We have become warring tribes, with distinct identities and values. Social conservatives versus social liberals. Provincials versus metropolitans. Or, as the author David Goodhart has put it, “Somewheres” versus “Anywheres”.
Even on the most trivial subjects we disagree. Only yesterday, a survey by Yougov reported on the latest battleground: the sitcom Mrs Brown’s Boys. Apparently, Leave voters love it (proper, old-fashioned, un-pc belly laughs), while Remainers hate it (tripe for thickos). A previous survey asked people for their favourite “brands”. Leave voters suggested HP Sauce, Bisto, PG Tips (traditional, familiar, British). Remain voters suggested Instagram, Spotify, Airbnb (trendy, modern, footloose). Again: worlds apart.
Look. I’m sorry. But we can’t go on like this. Our differences are too great, our cultures incompatible. For the sake of our children, for the sake of our future, for the sake of world peace, something has to be done. And it’s this.
On March 30, 2019, the UK must split into two independent countries. Remainia, for Remainers. And Brexitland, for Brexiteers.
To bring this about, we shall of course need to hold a referendum. The campaign will be bitterly fought: Remainers focusing on sovereignty and urging supporters to take back control, while Leavers warn of economic instability and tell everyone they’d be stronger in. Ultimately, though, the Remainers will leave and the Leavers remain, and our glorious separate futures can begin.
Remainia will naturally follow all the rules and regulations of the EU, even before Brussels has considered its application to join. It will be populated almost exclusively by arts graduates, economists and twentysomething Labour supporters. Initially, its inhabitants will be delighted with their new nation, except for the twentysomething Labour supporters, who will be wondering why they can’t seem to find Jeremy Corbyn anywhere. Perhaps he’s gone on holiday again.
At first, the inhabitants of Brexitland will also be happy with their lot. Their borders are tightly controlled, all measures are imperial, the wearing of bowler hats is enforced by law, and Liam Fox has just announced a lucrative trade deal with a man selling DVDS of new films down the pub. In time, though, resentments between Remainia and Brexitland will start to grow. The inhabitants of Brexitland will resent the inhabitants of Remainia for walking out on a successful union just because they didn’t always get their own way. In turn, the inhabitants of Remainia will resent the inhabitants of Brexitland for refusing to accept the democratic result of a referendum. Eventually, hostilities will build to such a pitch that the two countries declare war. Fortunately the war will end in a truce almost immediately, given that both sides are so hopeless at fighting, the Remainians being too effete and the Brexiteers too old.
At which point, the two will reluctantly concede that there’s only one way forward: to go back to living in the same country again. And, exhausted by years of hatred and division, everyone will do their best to make it work. No more name-calling. No more tribalism. No more culture wars. No more abuse.
From then on, any bitterness will be left to fester in silence – the good, old-fashioned, British way.
Tell someone older that you’ve got children under four, and the response is always the same.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” they say, smiling and shaking their head. “These are the best years. They’re lovely now. But just you wait till they’re teenagers. You won’t know what’s hit you.”
Frankly, though, I doubt I’ll be all that surprised. I’ve already got a fair idea what it’s like to look after a teenager. Because I’ve got a threenager.
A threenager, in case you’re unfamiliar with the term, is a threeyear-old who behaves as if he’s 13. And in recent weeks, my son definitely appears to have entered his threenage years. No amount of TV is ever enough. He stays up as late as possible. He gets up as late as possible. And when I tell him he needs to hurry up and come downstairs or we’ll be late for nursery, he shouts “GO AWAY!”, pulls the duvet over his head, and rages silently at the world’s injustice.
The other morning, I gave up trying to coax him downstairs and decided to make my breakfast. I put a bowl of oats and milk in the microwave, and switched it on.
The hum, it seemed, could be heard loud and clear in my son’s bedroom.
“WHAT’S IN THAT MICROWAVE?” came the indignant bellow from upstairs.
“Porridge,” I called back. There was a short silence, broken by a bellow of “WHO’S IT FOR?”
“Well,” I said, “it was going to be for you. But since you aren’t here, I suppose I’ll have to eat it instead.”
The microwave dinged. I took out the bowl.
“Wow,” I called up the stairs. “If only you could see this porridge of yours. This porridge of yours looks so good. It’s going to be very, very hard to stop myself eating this delicious porridge of yours. I’ll just get myself a spoon, so that I can eat your porridge all up right now. Mmm, what lovely porridge. I think I’m going to eat it while watching TV, all by myself.”
From above came the thud of a bedroom door being flung open, followed by the thump, thump, thump of tiny feet, stomping irately down the stairs.
On the whole, then, I think I’m reasonably well prepared for his actual teenage years.
I just hope he still likes porridge. FOLLOW Michael Deacon on Twitter @Michaelpdeacon; READ MORE at telegraph.co.uk/opinion