Still feels very strange and my mood not altered by my fears of bunter and duck-face being fully realised. They are like little boys who’ve pulled off a successful prank against their more knowledgeable elders and the buzz of the game has been replaced by cold, hard reality. Already we have all of the brexit leaders pulling back on the mendacious bollocks they’d fed the poor populace: little change on immigration, no extra money for the NHS and other public services and at a stroke the United Kingdom becoming an isolated Englandshire. bunter in particular is rapidly being shown up for the inadequate charlatan that he is. Whilst they have brought about the fracturing of an already fractured country there will be an increasing fracture between bunter, duck-face and the grinning gargoyle and those who voted for leave.
Watching and listening to the grinning gargoyle is possibly the hardest to stomach, it feels as if he’s vomiting his bile over the rest of society. Already we are witnessing the results as people vomit their racist bile at anyone they consider ‘other’ and suddenly this country is an even more unpleasant place.
And the Labour party too, it’s fault lines widening at an alarming rate.
Seem to be many ‘regrexiters’, those who regret voting leave. Are there any who regret voting remain?
But life goes on, except for those who die. And my life last Saturday was spent in a place called Brownsword Hall, a rather grandly beamed place in olde worldly style in the middle of Poundbury. Poundbury is an adjunct to Dorchester where prince charlie has had built his paean to a bygone architectural age. It now covers quite a large area with it’s broad boulevards and vague unreal feel. Jonathan Meades, one of my heroes, calls poundbury a “Thomas Hardy theme park for slow learners” in one of his brilliant programmes ‘The Joy of Essex’. Unfortunately for us stallholders the hall was as empty of punters as the surrounding streets, I took a whole £5 for a whole day’s effort. And as I write this I get a phone call from my beautiful wife Kate who is beautifying a client called Anne who is running a country fair this coming weekend in nearby Kingston and I book a stall, quite a co-incidence. But not as much of a con-incidence as the one I read about while sat at my stall not selling anything last Saturday. It involves one of our former partners, a Frenchman called Emile Deschamps and plum puddings. He is first introduced to this dish at school by a Monsieur de Fortigbu. 10 years later he sees plum pudding on a restaurant menu when in a Parisian street. He goes inside to order a slice only to be told the last one has just been sold to……M. Fortigbu! Years later he’s at a friend’s dinner party when she is about to serve plum pudding, Emile wonders aloud if M. Fortigbu might be coming when the doorbell rings and of course it’s M. Fortigbu, but he hadn’t been invited he’d been invited to another place for dinner but come to the wrong place!
Anyway, I digress, as I’m sat behind my customer free stall I observe the behaviour of stallholders in the weird environs of poundbury. Most seem remarkably upbeat and chat and laugh with each other as there are no customers to chat and laugh with. Then they look more at each other’s wares and then begin to buy some, although no show any interest in mine as their stuff is mainly knitted toys, driftwood ornaments, home-made greeting cards and the like. I liken it to the survivors of an air crash in a remote area who are reduced to eating each other. Some might say the ultimate destination for capitalism. I didn’t think brexit would affect us this quickly.
And this war imagery is a trope our country still suffers from, did you see the ucrappers video they put out the other day that began with film of spitfires? And then I read a review of a new book by American Sebastien Junger; Tribe: On Homecoming and Belonging (he wrote The Perfect Storm), because I had lots of time to read on Saturday. He is interested in the rise of post traumatic stress disorder amongst war veterans and posits the theory that it’s less to do with their traumatic war experiences and more with the “sense of alienation they experience on return. With it’s toxic politics, yawning rich-poor divide and racial tension”. Makes sense to me as one assumes that when they are off soldiering in wars there is a greater social cohesion, that they support each other, there is greater camaraderie, egalitarianism and self-sacrifice. To then return to a society that is increasingly the opposite and one that doesn’t properly support them, well?
One interesting analysis of voting patterns was that although older folk generally voted leave the much older folk, those who had actually experienced war, generally voted remain.
I’m suffering from PBSD.
Keep on keeping on, love Duncan.