Opinion

That was Brexit: the mad energy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but lasting three and a half years

It unearthed some of the worst people in the country – on both sides. And the worst of all were the politicians

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Tonight’s Parliament Square party to mark Brexit was hit by a ban on booze, live music and fireworks – the first three in a presumably infinite series of things that we now won’t be able to blame on boring Brussels bureaucrats. Right about now, you’re probably starting to think “Oh my God … what if … what if we were the bastards all along?” Crazy as it may seem on this day of national emancipation, it’s just possible that one day we might yearn to be plugged back into the matrix where it was all someone else’s fault.

Still, to the victor go the spoils. Brexit is done, except for the many big bits that aren’t. All UK humans must absorb the sledgehammer implication of the fact that a man with the mind and moral stature of Nigel Farage is far and away the most successful politician of his generation. Like Farage said last week: “Unless this government drops the ball, and I don’t think it will, you will never, ever see me again.” And like he said this week: “I look forward to a new role with Newsweek, where I shall be commenting on the battles ahead.”

Either way, there are indications that the curtain between reality and metaphor has been finally rent. Consider the fact that on Brexit eve, Farage stood in what appeared to be a London restaurant’s attic and unveiled a hideous portrait of himself. Instead of being accompanied by a brilliant Wildean dandy saying things like, “Nigel – you are the type of what the age is searching for, and what it is afraid it has found!”, Farage was instead introduced by occasional Dubai émigré Jim Davidson, who made a joke about France that I can’t lavish a keystroke on. Trivia completists may care to know the title of Nigel’s portrait was Mr Brexit, and not 55?!?!?! – Fuck Me, He Had A Hard Paper Round.

To mark the occasion, the government has newly minted, or reminted, a special Brexit 50p coin. If you get one, hang on to it – it might be worth something one day. Something like 20 euro cents. Or 1/600th of a threadworm tablet under the new US-friendly drug pricing. When coming up with their big Brexit marker, it’s interesting that the Tory right decided to go with pieces of silver, a concept closely associated with historic betrayal. Perhaps they’re trying to reclaim it for themselves, along with Calais, and the idea it’s fine to say the N-word because rappers do it.

They’re certainly using the moment as a fundraising opportunity, and have spent much of the week acting as a sort of off-brand Franklin Mint. Tuesday’s big push alerted buyers to their range of Brexit “merch”, which is exactly how the target market for this stuff talks. A second drive offered people the chance to “own Brexit” in the form of a copy of the withdrawal agreement signed by Boris Johnson. Tickets for the draw are £5. It’s a lovely idea – and is it scalable? Even now, perhaps one of the oddballs hired by Dominic Cummings is working out whether you could technically fund a new hospital by selling copies of the statement “I will build a new hospital” signed by Boris Johnson. Soon enough, the dominant form of intranational trade in the UK will be the exchange of items signed by Boris Johnson. Johnson has long been aware of the value of his signature, which is why he has avoided flooding the market by withholding it from a number of birth certificates.