EDWARD THOMPSON /
The Beginning of Brexit







The white man with the tattoos and shaven head is approaching the red dragon. The man who controls the dragon tells me that he can make it breathe fire, but as the event today is mostly for school children he doesn’t want to scare them. He places his puppet master arm firmly up the arse of the red dragon as the white man with the tattoos and shaven head passes. A staffy walks by with an England flag.

The Brexiteers did not want to take their seats, they only wanted to stand and chant his name, Nigel! Nigel! Nigel! The press photographers gathered at the end of the red carpet, like a line of scrimmage, whilst Brexit Party handlers shouted at them to make way for him. He walked amongst them, flanked by security. A woman screamed, a photographer takes a photograph of her blurred red mouth wide open. Nigel Farage mounts the stage and stands centre forward with his Brexit Party candidates amassed behind him under olympian text stating ‘Change Politics for Good’. The photographers now surround the lip of the stage, ignoring the PR teams pleas, they aim their cameras straight up at him, a heroic low angle. He shouts, he sweats, he points and I feel like I’ve seen something like this before.

Billy Bragg is on stage singing, the sun is shining down on the protestors at Westminster. Theresa Mays giant head effigy is blissfully anachronistic, like a trophy, surrounded by smiling remoaners. A woman has brought her new born baby with her, a sign tells me ‘our government is off its tits, lets revoke this shit.’ A Brexiteer walks amongst them with a shaven head and a Stop Brexit sticker, he films every remoaner he argues with on his phone. He won. No one changes his mind.