Brexit is where the optimistic message of hope, pioneered by Barack Obama and pre-“weapons of mass destruction” Tony Blair, suddenly felt like ash in our hands. Solid, foundational humanity—community, caring—moved from legitimate aspiration to naive teenage daydream. Cameron’s successors can politely be described as utterly fucking chaotic; I wish I had more to say about Theresa May than leather trousers, but I don’t. There are so many ways to describe Boris Johnson, but to me he will always be a kitchen measuring jug filled to the brim with custard. There was the 44-day question mark of Liz Truss’s tenure. And now we have Rishi “I’m a quadrillonaire but I don’t make a thing of it” Sunak, whose private Instagram bio almost certainly says A real man makes his own luck.
At a time when people are absolutely gagging to recommend their chosen political podcast to you, Britain finds itself the least politically served nation. We’re full of powerful opinions but powerless to realize them. Our freewheeling ruling party implements outlandishly cruel, shamelessly unwelcoming and unkind policies (not to mention creating the impossible-to-parody role of common sense tsar). Britain is squabbling over sex-based rights vs. transgender protections and deciding if Rwanda deportation is legal. We talk of speed limits and poppies and XL Bullies to the point of insanity. Throughout all this, our ruling party mocks us—a cavalcade of toffs who snogged their way through COVID-19, who Christmas partied while we Zoomed into funerals. It’s so enraging, it’s so embarrassing.