This week we’re joined by Ron’s brother, Dave, to talk about the fascinating world of pest control. Over to you, Dave…

Hello everybody.  Today I’m going to be talking about what you can do if you find you’ve got an old lefty who’s taken over your political party.

The first thing to do is recognise that this is a real problem.  A lot of people only see the lefty’s little beard, or its 1970s-polytechnic-lecturer dress-sense and think it’s ‘cute’, ‘good’ or ‘decent’. The truth is that a lefty can be vicious when cornered and can play havoc with your ability to mount an opposition to any bunch of right-wingers who might take a fancy to your county.

In the proper order of things your old lefty should be in their natural habitat; quietly seething at the back of your political party.  While they’re there all you have to worry about is them making a complete tit of themselves at an anti-Israel demo during a slow news week and ending up on page 7 of one of the red-tops, the rest of the time they’ll cause you no bother.

The trouble is if they manage to make themselves a home at the top of your party they tend to get a bit territorial and start pushing out the native inhabitants, making their distinctive “red tory”growl. They’ll also turn up on the front-pages, being a complete fucking bell-end. Before you know it your whole party is completely unmanageable.

When things get to this stage many people’s first reaction is to reach for the old electoral poison, but this rarely works. You see that, unlike other MPs, your old lefty is completely incapable of being sickened and can swallow the most appalling anti-Semitism without even shuddering. They’ve got an amazing natural defence – a protective layer of thousands of blinkered sycophants on social media – which attempts to minimise any electoral poison by explaining it away as a misunderstanding or by changing the subject or declaring it all to be a Blairite plot.

As an experienced professional I’ll normally try a humane method of extracting them first.  I’ll normally put on an out-door showing of Battleship Potemkin in St James park (with the original Russian cue-cards, if its a really serious infestation) and when your old lefty comes running along I’ll point to the small print on the poster, which says “Backbenchers only”.  Nine times out of ten they’ll decide of their own free-will that they’d rather have the ‘Odessa Steps’ than high office, especially if it’s a nice warm evening and you’ve laid on real ale.

If that doesn’t get ’em then you can try destroying their mandate, to see if that moves them on. In my experience though the little buggers will just twist and turn and redefine what a mandate is…”I could still win a general election”, “Even if I couldn’t win an election the party back me in forming a credible opposition and defining the nature of the debate”, “My MPs may have deserted me, but the party membership still backs me”, “The membership may have stabbed me in the back, but there’s a demo of 10,000 people outside who want me to stay”, “I still have a solid core of support, and they’ve now all got matching uniforms!”, etc.

Yes, the little buggers will twist and turn rather than admit they’re where they should be and that nobody wants them.

I’ve honestly known people give up at this stage and just leave their party, to let the old lefty destroy it at their own pace.  I think that’s harsh solution. It might just be a party membership to you, but some people actually need an opposition party to make their lives better.

So, if all else fails the only option is to introduce the old lefty’s only natural predator into the party.  You might want to stand back, though, because it will tend to get a bit bloody.

That’s all for this week: Join us next week, when Dave will be discussing what to do if a crested yellow buffoon has trashed your house and then gone to ground.

There is a theory – admittedly one I like – that the people who followed Jesus in his lifetime and proclaimed him the messiah envisaged him as a Davidic messiah; somebody who was going to united the Jewish people, be a general and lead them in reclaiming their lost land.  When he failed to do those things his followers either had to admit that they had been wrong, or come up with an alternative version of events.

They chose the latter; Jesus’ defeat was turned into the triumphant realisation of the plan he had all along, the words of Genesis were twisted to breaking point to provide a rational for his death – original sin – and a mystic element was added to his life.

And so we turn to that other JC…Jeremy Corbyn.

Corbyn was elected to the Labour party leadership by people who truly believed that moving the party leftwards was an election winner. People had, the story went, deserted Labour because they had become indistinguishable from the Conservatives; they had gone to the Greens, or become disenfranchised with politics, or maybe hung out on the fringes of the Lib Dems.

This was the support for Jesus as a military leader, a winner of grand military campaigns, and even as Corbyn is being nailed to his cross a few still cling to it, in the face of all evidence.  A lot of people returned to Labour from the Green party, but the Greens were strong in the middle-class, well-educated, Guardian-reading suburbs from which Corbyn also draws his key support. Every single Green voting Labour in the 2015 general election would have yielded only a handful of additional seats and there are no signs of the army of disenfranchised non-voters coming to Corbyn’s aid. He and his supporters have never had any interest in appealing to Conservative or UKIP voters, who they hate nearly as much as they hate the right-wing of Labour.

Those who know that the hope of a general election win is gone are pushing to create a new story…Corbyn wasn’t about winning a general election, he was about building a social movement, or setting the agenda of politics. Diane Abbott yesterday said it was “Westminster-centric” to ask if Corbyn could win a general election.  Since then this list of his achievements has started circulating:

These are the achievements of a rain-maker – one who waits for it to rain and then claims ‘I made that happen’ – and one of them, “matched previous local gov election results”, is an open admission that the policy of bringing new Labour voters to the fold was a failure, but it’s been made-up like Bernard Bresslaw in a Carry-on film and pushed out onto the beauty contest catwalk.

The final paragraph shows that we’re in the end-game. There are, as far as the Corbynites are concerned, no shortage of contenders for the role of Judas. At least 172 of them, as at time of writing. The party as a whole represents the Jewish elders, dragging Jesus in front of Pontious Pilate (Labour voters), claiming that he is a false messiah.

Any day now the final blow will come that transforms Corbyn the man into Corbyn the martyr, the one true hope for a more caring, compassionate, fairer society. The mythology is already forming; Corbyn was a good man, he was a decent man, he didn’t believe in violence, he worked hard for the Remain campaign, he walked a straight line in a world where all around him were corrupted by the great Satan.

Two final points. Firstly, King David and Jesus are treated very differently in the Bible. The former is a very human character, with foibles and failings, the second is barely human at all. There’s no physical description of Jesus, little mention of his family, barely any of his life outside of his ministry. He is a blank canvas onto which those who support him can project whatever they want. This is why one devout follower of Jesus can say he loves us all, while another, equally devout, can claim that “Jesus hates fags”. So with Corbyn. Those who follow him follow the person not his policies, for he barely has any. He has aspirations, but no route to get from where he is to realising them. He is no more than a blank character, a cipher,  onto which each Corbynite implants their own dream of how to make a better world and believes that to be Corbyn’s policy.

Lastly, consider this; Jesus was Jewish. The people he was supposed to be uniting and leading were the Jewish people and it was Imperial Roman that they were overthrowing, but the personality cult that grew up around him lead to 2,000 years of Jewish persecution, as they were labelled ‘Christ killers’ by the church, which itself became intertwined with Roman imperialism.  If you’re a Corbyn supporter and you find yourself calling for the destruction of the Labour party, or the demolition of the BBC for being biased against you, or you’re advocating a Conservative government as a preference to a ‘red-Tory’ Labour leader then maybe it’s time to ask yourself just who it is who’s betraying the left-wing.

In these difficult political times, as our nation stands on a precipice – convinced there by those who believe it can fly – leaderless, bleeding and uncertain we need to band together.

Our immediate political future must see us united by the big issues, not split by petty differences.  In that spirit I have written an open letter to the Corbynites, in the hope that we may form a coherent and effective opposition party, that can fight the fractured Tories and the forces that threaten to drive us into uncharted and unplanned waters.

This is a heartfelt letter, so I make no apologies for its length, the strong sentiment, nor the strong language required to carry such sentiment.

Dear Corbynites,

You’re going to get us all killed, you fucking crazy cunts!

Yours,

Andrew

Channel hopping last night we hit upon Adele’s Glastonbury performance, just as it started.

I’m not an Adele fan, but the wife likes her, so we stayed tuned in.  How amazing to watch her make such a personal connection with the huge live audience, and even the thousands watching on TV.  Her London accent (I’d never heard her speak before last night, only sing, so it came as a shock to me), her swearing, her sweaty top lip and, most of all, her air of somebody everyday who was thrilled and amazed to find herself in the incredible position of performing in the headline slot at the world’s most famous music festival, it all reduced the distance between performer and audience to nothing.

How fitting that performance should come on the weekend that Corbyn’s tenuous grasp on the Labour leadership starts to crumble, because Adele delivered exactly what we needed from Corbyn.

A huge percentage of those watching were probably, like me, doing so because their partners wanted to watch, or there was nothing better on, or through some sort of belief that they should still be young enough to enjoy the festival and, like me, came away feeling that Adele was an incredible performer and an act they’d genuinely like to see.

Imagine if Corbyn could have done that.  If he could have found a way to make that personal connection, to make himself the ordinary person amongst the unreachable elite, somebody who was just thrilled to be given the chance to represent those who opposed the government.  Instead he’s always been distant, relying on his greatest hits (which, really, only his hardcore fans know) and muttering into his mic about how this is the best town in the world to play.

The other difference, of course, is that when the time came to stop being friends with the audience and do what she was there for, Adele could deliver.  The moment when she stopped a song seconds in because she was out of breath made her completely human, not a superstar, one of “us”, not one of “them”…but it was one song, moments in.  Everything else was flawless.

Corbyn, having failed to connect, has also failed to deliver the politics.  He’s followed meekly where he should have led, cowered when he should have roared, been honest when he should have lied and failed to bury his personal opinions when they conflicted with those of his supporters and his party.

By the end of her set last night Adele could have asked the crowd to form an opposition movement, tear into a divided Tory party, storm the gates of Downing Street and burn down Buckingham palace, and they’d have done it all.  Corbyn would still be on stage, writing down in long-hand any questions they shouted out for the next PMQs.

It seems that we’re about to plunge into another Labour leadership contest.  Let’s hope that all involved remember that this time the debate doesn’t need to be widened, it needs to be focussed – like a laser – on the weakened Tories, it needs to have passion rather than ideology and, more than anything else, it needs charisma.

And maybe, just maybe, “Someone like you” as an encore.

With Nicola Sturgeon saying IndyRef2 is on the cards I wonder if anybody has thought about this carefully.

IndyRef was a relatively straightforward decision on whether Scotland should be independent.  The issues around EU membership and currency were very much pushed into the pile of things to be dealt with once there was a mandate for independence.

IndyRef2 is going to be infinitely more complex for two reasons:

1. Although the UK has voted to leave the EU it hasn’t yet started the procedure to do so.  It may be that there’s negotiation and then a 2nd referendum on whether to accept a re-negotiated EU deal or to really leave.  Those negotiations might, theoretically at least, all take place without the UK ever formally starting the process to end its EU membership.  Even when the Big Red Button™ is pushed it simply starts the clock ticking on the UK’s 2 year notice period to leave.  So, in theory at least, the whole IndyRef2 and process for Scotland leaving the UK could happen while the UK is negotiating it’s position with the EU and before it’s known for certain that the UK will leave the EU.
2. This time around Scotland’s relationship with the EU post-independence isn’t incidental – it’s the key matter, but the EU can’t guarantee that an independent Scotland will be voted into the EU, and Scotland can’t be sure it could meet the requirements to join the Euro, in terms of reducing it’s deficit.  The pro

Therefore, if Scotland votes ‘No’ a second time matters are relatively straightforward; Scotland’s fate will remain tied to the rest of the UK’s.

If, however, there’s a ‘Yes’ vote to independence then there are 4 possible outcomes, all of which are wholly or partly outside of the control of the Scottish electorate.

The best possible outcome is the third one – Scotland maintains all of its trade relationships, virtue of the EU – but it’s also the one that offers the least legitimacy for Indyref2

The worst outcomes leaves Scotland independent and outside the EU, while the rest of the UK remains in; making it exponentially more complicated to set up trade and free movement of people between the neighbours.  Remember, this isn’t something that Scotland might go independence knowing will be the outcome – it could be how the chips fall once Scotland is already well along the road to independence.

If there is an IndyRef2 then the electorate need to be very, very clear that the risk of negative isn’t “Project Fear” – it’s Project Russian Roulette and flags, not even the EU one, can save you.

This has been a long day, full of disappointments, but now it’s over.

A lot of people have made a decision I feel is wrong, and I feel that a lot of them have made it for the wrong reasons.

I don’t hate them. I don’t think they’re stupid. I won’t call them names. I don’t want their decision to lead to them losing their jobs, or having less happy lives. Nobody deserves to be punished for doing what they think is the right thing.

I believe, above all else in politics, that we face global problems that can only be solved if we face them as a global community…but that has to start with us reaching out to the person right next to us.

I don’t know what tomorrow is going to bring; markets may collapse, unions – centuries old – may crumble, politicians may climb over each others carcasses to, momentarily, be the one at the top of the heap, people who deal in hate may rise, people who talk of moderation may be vilified.

But we have each other.

We face the future together, and we will have better tomorrows.

Earlier on this week I stumbled across this film:

Obviously that is too classy a film not to watch, and today – the most politically depressing day I’ve ever known – I need cheering up.  Hence I’m going to attempt to review it, based only on this preview of its contents.

Description: A romantic couple get more than they expected after the husband’s experiments with penis-enlargement cream go awry. Wait, this is not a porn story. Rather, it is an absurd science-fiction movie that features a curious new species, the Dickshark. In some ways this story asks the same questions that Mary Shelly did when she wrote “Frankenstein.”

Science fiction with a dash of the modern Prometheus, eh? Who could resist?  And so I proudly present…

Dickshark: The review

And we’re off.  With no credits or opening titles or even an establishing shot we open with a metal soundtrack and a woman lying on a bed wearing heels, stockings & suspenders and her pants. Less than three seconds in and I’m already starting to doubt the “Wait, this is not a porn story” element of the review.

As she adjusts her suspender strap the music abruptly stops and her partner – who reminds me far too much of Julian Assange – pokes his head out from the bathroom and asks, “Can you believe that my enlargement cream already started to work?”

He delivers this line with the professional screen slick of a member of one those tribes that believe cameras capture your soul, but the director cunningly compensates by getting the shot as close in to his face as possible…although not quickly enough to disguise that the action is taking place in a Premier Inn-style hotel room.

“I really don’t care about the size of your dick,” his lady friend assures him.  Less reassuringly she continues, “Even if you were enormous I probably wouldn’t orgasm anyway.”

Tough gig.

Not put off by this in slightest, or at least incapable of conveying such through the medium of acting, her Assange-alike (who, naturally, is fully clothed…this isn’t a porn story, after all) gets her in the mood with some smooth talking.

“Anyway, I think this cream has some sort of side-effect.  My dick is kind of clay-like.”

“What do you mean, ‘clay-like’?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.  My dick is exactly like clay.”

Brings a whole new meaning to “he’ll be like putty in your hands”, I guess.

“Well sculpt it into something useful, then!” his lady-friend commands.

Julian Don Jaun says this may take him a while and adds, “Take your panties off while you’re waiting. Let’s not waste any time.”

I’m torn between marvelling that the only two people in the world who wouldn’t treat “clay-like dick” as a barrier to immediate sexual intercourse have managed to hook up, and wondering if Mary Shelley cut the chapter where Doctor Frankenstein pondered over into what “useful” shape he should sculpt his monster’s little monster.

The heavy metal soundtrack resumes as the lady clay-fetishist gets up from the bed, removes her suspender belt, then her knickers and then puts her suspender belt back on, apparently unaware of how they work…all in slow motion.

You’re now wondering if I’m typing this one-handed.

Believe me, I’ve seen Farage’s face too many times today to ever be able to experience sexuality again.  It’s like that episode of Friends where Ross gets Rachel to dress as Princess Leia – I can see only Farage’s gurning features on every human’s face.  There’s going to be some proper therapy involved in getting over this, Dickshark isn’t going to cut it.

Moving on.  Our hero returns and we discover that of all the “useful” shapes he could have chosen for his clay penis he’s gone for ‘shark’.  There it is, just poking out the front of his jeans like a waxy bath-toy.  The only way anybody could be sexually excited by this is if they’d been involved in some bizarre psychology experiments conducted in Toys-R-Us during puberty.

Suspension of disbelief is one thing, but would any man, anywhere, ever, upon finding they could mould their gentleman bits into that shape think that it was appropriate to seek sex, rather than, say, medical advice?

Fortunately the suspender-illiterate isn’t at all put off and, smiling, tries to give him a blowjob…a task made much more complex by the extensive props team not checking the size of her mouth before constructing their shark-penis “special” effect.  So there’s a great deal of moving around and repositioning as she tries to get her mouth around something that is clearly not human-mouth-sized.

Fortunately we’re distracted from her difficulties – and spared the pain of these two lovers trying to deliver dialogue – by the soundtrack, which has become a sort of grunge-ballad about being sick of it all. It was picked, I’m 103% certain, on the basis of somebody involved in the film being in the band playing it or knowing the band. It certainly wasn’t picked because it was in any way suitable for a sex scene…not even one involving a clay penis moulded into the shape of a wax shark.

Giving up on the blowjob, but with the Nine Inch Nailers still playing, they seem to decide to proceed straight to sex; because every woman knows that if it won’t fit into your mouth it will be just fine up your foof.

We, the audience, wait with baited breath as we wonder just how far this film will go.  Using the old BBFC maxim, “Outer labia may be in, but inner labia are definitely out” this isn’t quite a “porn story” yet, but it’s heading that way.  Fortunately he seems happy to prod at her pubis with its hammerhead and after about a minute of doing so he unexpectedly wanders off.  I’m starting to suspect that his girlfriend was dead right, and that his penis-size has nothing to do with her lack of orgasms.

In the bathroom our hero is complaining that when he put more cream on his dick bit his finger off.

WHY WERE YOU PUTTING MORE CREAM ON, JULIAN? THE DAMN THING IS ALREADY TOO BIG TO FIT ANYWHERE, AND IS ALSO A SHARK! IN WHAT WAY WAS MORE FUCKING CREAM TO RESOLVE EITHER OF THOSE ISSUES!

Rachel (yes, the girl is really called Rachel…I honestly didn’t know that when I wrote the Friends thing) sees his predicament and using her medical degree from Trump University shoots Julian in the crotch, apparently believing there’s a universe where this will make things better.

“You shoot my dick, you shoot me!” gasps Julian, as we see his now detached sharkdick splash into the toilet, still accompanied by music that sounds like something you listened to at 1996 goth parties.  Rachel, ignoring both the dick in the toilet and fingerless and dickless Julian, pours the hand-labelled penis enlargement cream down the sink.  Finally we get a title, “Dickshark”.

I’ve spent 1,100 words to get 7¼ minutes into a 2½ hour-long film and covered one scene, so I feel I need to stop.  I will return to the film, it’s…remarkable and, after the BBC News headlines this morning, undoubtedly the second most ridiculous thing I’ve see all day.

The review continues here.

For every complex problem there is an answer that is clear, simple, and wrong.

-H. L. Mencken

People believe they want justice and wise government but, in fact, what they really want is an assurance that tomorrow will be very much like today.

– Terry Pratchett

Some people – mean people – have accused the Leave campaign of having no plans for Britain in the event of a Brexit win, just because they never discuss such plans, publish them, make any hint that they exist, or answer any questions about them.

Obviously this is rot. So, for the first time, here are the post-Brexiting Leave plans.

Day 1 (AM)

Barely have the results been announced than Nigel Farage is on telly to say he’s stepping back from political life. He cites having achieved his life-long political goals as the reason and says he is leaving the UK to take up a board-level job in the US.  Asked whether he’ll be taking a government job he’s got his mike off and is into his Jag before the interviewer has had time to cut to the studio, where they are breaking the news that the pound is now worth less than the Wakundian Pebble.

Day 1 (PM)

Boris Johnson turns up on TV for his 8am interview. He is unshaven, badly hung-over and is wearing a tuxedo with bits of sick on it.  In his short interview he repeatedly swigs from a hip flask, congratulates Donald Trump on becoming president, promises to be the mayor of all of London and, when reminded about Brexit, says he is looking forward to the “insurmountable challenges” of it, and then hastily changes this to “problems which will define and outlast this generation.”

Day 4

David Cameron appears on TV to say how sorry he is that the Remain campaign was unsuccessful, apparently unable to hear the millions of people yelling “I’d have voted for them if you’d been on the other side, you toxic shit”.  He confirms that he has invoked article 50, giving the EU the required 2 years’ notice that Britain is leaving, and says that he will be stepping down as Prime Minister at the end of the day.

Addressing calls from Scottish Nationalists for a second independence referendum he says that it’s time for the country to stand together and that every UK citizen now has a duty to respect the will of the majority and try their hardest to make Brexit work.

This contrasts starkly with Boris Johnson’s view that “…we’d be well shot of the pasty, work-shy, McScroungers.  The only good thing they ever gave us was Billy Connolly”. He then launches into an impersonation, although it quickly becomes clear that he’s had one of his trademarked mix-ups. The result is so embarrassing that even the normally insensitive Boris peters off during his second encore of Summertime.

Day 13

After a short, but bitter, week of infighting the new government takes shape.  Boris Johnson, as expected, emerges as PM, having fought off a large and disillusioned group of pro-Remain MPs who supported Jeremy Corbyn  as the new Conservative leader, “To widen the debate”.  Beating back the rebels Boris quips, “As I’ve supported both Remain and Leave I think the debate is wide enough with just my voice, and my Scottish chums tell me that our new chancellor [Iain Duncan Smith] is as wide as they come”.

Michael Gove takes the post of Home Secretary. As punishment for supporting the Remain camp Jeremy Hunt is given the worst possible assignment and left exactly where he is.

Day 16

A video leaked to YouTube shows a surprised David Cameron being offered, and accepting, the role of Foreign Secretary, and then having Boris Johnson tell him that the post is being abolished because, “…we’re not going to have any more truck with that foreign lot.”

Cameron’s supporters claim that Johnson himself leaked the video, and the PM’s denial is weakened by him saying, “You owe me £250, Jeremy Beadle,” directly to camera at the end.

Day 24

Andrew Marr puts IDS on the spot, asking how he reconciles his resignation over austerity measures with the swingeing cuts to public services he has just announced. As Smith flounders Marr asks whether it was wise to announce massive tax-cuts at the same time. Marr then interrupts his waffling answer about ‘stimulating business growth’ to ask if his announcement that he was removing the VAT exemption on food, reportedly “because I fucking well can” is also stimulating the economy.

At this point IDS pulls out his mobile phone, sends a text and then comments, “Oh dear, remember that budget that the BBC used to have?”

Day 65

The situation in the migrant camp at Calais grows increasingly desperate, with many tens of thousands of people trapped there whilst trying to flee unimaginable horrors.

One of the refugees, interviewed by Time magazine, says, “I’ve told the French police over and over again that we still have the right of free movement, but they won’t let us out.  I can’t take my kids back to Essex! They need to grow up seeing TV programmes that don’t involve Jim Davidson or Mike Reid!”

Day 141

The election of Donald Trump to the US presidency is hailed as a triumph for common sense by the Prime Minister, who resolves to strengthen the special relationship and invite President Trump to visit the UK, just as soon as he’s resolved the strike by airport ground staff over the acceleration of plans for ‘Boris Island’.

Day 144

The Prime Minister proudly announces that, working with his Home Secretary and Lord Chancellor [Lady Hopkins of Yeovil], he has managed to find a way to resolve the ground staff strike and, simultaneously, create thousands of new jobs in airports across the country.

Day 732

Britain officially leaves the EU and goes it alone.  The Prime Minister, wide-eyed and shouting, appears on TV to announce and exciting new trade deal with Cuba and says he expects to start importing French wine again by 2023.  He says he is personally saddened that so many investors chose to leave Britain and the economic toll that has taken, but says that over the next year all of the money that would have been paid in EU membership fees will go to opening more hospitals; hopefully allowing up to 5 to be fully operational and staffed across the UK.

Day 811

After more than 30 days of complete silence from the remains of the government Gove appears on Radio 4’s Today programme (“Betfair are the proud sponsors of thought for the day”), where he tells all 18 people who can still afford to run a radio that, “Walking naked down Oxford Street, equipped with a rectal sausage and a ceremonial sword to behead cockroaches is entirely consistent with the office of Lord Chancellor.”

Day 1,001

Prime Minister Johnson addresses the entire population (Gove and Hopkins) while they finish off the IDS left-overs, telling them that, “One thousand days ago people despaired, but here we are; 100% white middle-class, 100% employed, migration at far, far less than zero, no queues in A&E, nobody listening to anything other than Radio 3.  To think that people said we didn’t have a plan!”

“I missed Nigel,” says Gove.

“We all miss Nigel,” replies Katie, while the sun, finally, sets on the British Empire.

Europe continues.

I wonder how much is the EU referendum costing; not in terms of actual pounds spent – which I’m sure the electoral commission are keeping an eye on – but in terms of people hours.  How many person hours have been spent on researching and writing the pro- and anti-EU material, printing it, distributing it, going door to door to promote it?  However many hours it is it’s a drop compared to the number of hours the 50-odd million adults in the UK have spent arguing the toss in the pub or online, retweeting and sharing social media posts, seething with rage at the idiotic views of somebody they used to think was a good colleague/friend/soul-mate, or just taking the fliers that have come through their door out to the bin.  It must be billions of hours.

Imagine if we’d done something good with them.

I’m not suggesting that we could have turned all of those people into cancer-curing scientists or even that those hours could have been spent on selfless charity work, but they could have done better than re-heat the same arguments on smaller and smaller scales, like some fact-free fractal.  They could have read, or watched a classic film, spent some time with their kids or their partner, taken somebody on a first date, tried ice-skating, watched a sunset, stuck an old comedy sketch on YouTube and had a laugh.

We’ve spent a billion hours making the UK a more divisive and angrier place.

This isn’t just about the EU referendum, though.  What about the Trump/Clinton saga that’s about to be unleashed? We, as a species, have already easily burned more than a billion people hours just getting to the stage of knowing who’s going to be in the presidential race and we’re going to burn another couple of billion working out which of them gets to live in the White House.

Just to make it absurd, the whole presidential contest is essentially to see who gets to sit in their country’s passenger seat; the president may get as good a view of the road ahead as anyone else, and may be in a prime position to make suggestions to the driver, but the only control they can reach is the handbrake.

You can’t tell me if the job of president just went to the first person in America to shout “Shotgun!” on the 8th November that the outcome would be any worse (and, as it’s the USA, may indeed suddenly afford much needed secret service protection to someone facing an actual shotgun).

A cornerstone of the EU ‘Leave’ campaign’s argument has been that the EU is undemocratic, but I’m coming to the opinion that we should embrace ‘undemocratic’.  That ‘undemocratic’ is good.  Back in the mid-nineties, when I first discovered the on-line, unmoderated, forums of Usenet, I thought that the Internet was going to bring us the dream of true democracy.  Why would we need elected representatives when everyone had an on-line presence, could find the facts for themselves and vote directly? I imagined a future country with a civil service, but no government; where the people’s will could be read instantly and enacted.

Twenty years of arguing the toss on-line later I can only cringe in horror thinking about what my utopia would have been like.  If an independence referendum and an EU membership referendum have cost us billions of hours they have at least shown the frightening speed with which tribalism overtakes policy.  This is democracy, and we’re fucking terrible at it!

The anger, the wasted years, the salt we’re willingly pouring into wounds should all act as stark reminders that democracy is too important to be left to the public.  Whatever challenges face us after the EU referendum vote we should face them with a new found respect for our elected representatives.  God knows they’re not perfect, but they do keep the country running without setting brother against brother, and we, in return, have managed to make which party you vote for something that’s vaguely taboo (in contrast to the vulgar referendum,  where the voting intention question now has to come somewhere between the first handshake and asking if they’d like a cup of tea).

Let’s not let the billions of hours poured into this referendum be a total waste. Let’s learn that this is a poor way to answer important questions. Let’s take away the painful lesson that the price of civilised freedom is eternal politicians.