Nihilist dad

Two weeks ago the Corbynite members of the bloggerati were having a high old time of it. And who can blame them. Having endured the carping of more or less everyone else for two years that their man had all the electoral appeal of soiled trousers, events since June must seem like the biggest vindication. And I include myself in that list of carpers.

So having lowered all expectations to the point at which a small failure felt like victory, they needed to mark the likes of me clearly with a Scarlet Letter for our ideological shame. The insult that seems to have landed the best turns out to be Centrist Dad, which is both suitably dismissive and witheringly accurate. Who could be more uncool than a dad? Ironically impotent, a figure of irrelevance - not significant enough to be even be evil. A pitiable fool, a Falstaff dressed in Fred + Florence. Fairly pointless, until the time comes to borrow a stepladder.

It's a tag I'm happy to wear. Both as my comeuppance for not recognising Corbyn as an Ayatollah for our times and that a shadow front bench devoid of talent is a government in waiting. Corbyn's strength has been talking the language of socialism without actually moving the policies much beyond Ed Miliband. His socialist credentials and record allow him to stand for a set of values that people can believe in, without looking too closely at his actual policy successes or stances. He's the Jürgen Klopp of British politics.

In a normal world, he wouldn't stand a chance, based on his personal position on everything from the nuclear deterrent to nationalisation. His basic lack of experience in a decision-making position with real consequence. His underwhelming leadership skills. But this is not a normal world. It's one in which the most unimpressive, grasping imbeciles are in charge of the most important political challenge of our lifetime. Where a walking hardcore suicide pact in Saville Row suits seems determined to trash everything in pursuit of an ideological mirage. Where a government is so divided even the Prime Minister's voice seems determined to split from the body politic.

A modern tulip fever of fuckwittery is catapulting everything over a cliff against the direct wishes of almost everyone who's not been trying Dan Hannan's Kool Aid, because some people didn't like others speaking Polish on the bus. And we are all paralysed from acting by the yellowing legitimacy of a popular mandate to do something non-specific involving a shotgun pointed at our feet.

So, under the circumstances, why not Corbyn? Why not free university tuition, 50 million council homes, and end to trident and a trillion more on the national debt. If nobody in charge of anything cares whether the country descends into a jam-infested backwater, drunk on nostalgia, then let's bet the farm on stuff that helps people. Not so much hung for a sheep as a lamb, but a whole flock. Then at least we can make a nice curry for everyone, not just the few.

Getting over it

I've decided to take the advice of the winners. Brexit means Brexit. It's the will of the people. We lost and we need to get over it. Pull together and make a success of Brexit. Forget the old ways, it's time to get behind Britain and push for those sunlit uplands. I've decided to take this on board and really take the advice of those wiser than me who know what's best and Make A Success Of It.

Armed with my new attitude, I went to the swimming pool on Saturday. A baptism, a fresh beginning. With purpose I approached the cashier - "one free swim, for a free Briton" I confidently demanded.

"Pool is closed to adult swimmers - swimming classes until noon on Saturdays" came the mealy-mouthed reply. Clearly a hide-bound thinker, afraid to look beyond the safety of the rules. So I tried a different approach.

"How do you expect to open up new economic opportunities if you're not prepared to accept new thinking?" I challenged. "It's this lack of imagination that means remoaners like you are holding back our potential. Think differently. This is a new opportunity. Brexit means Brexit, and you're standing in the way of destiny".

Half an hour later, I finished a rather challenging, but enjoyable, swim in the showers, and was getting changed, reflecting on how my new approach was really opening up new possibilities.

I went to Tesco to buy some champagne to celebrate the triggering of Article 50. British Champagne, of course. In a rather backward-looking move, it turns out Tesco don't sell British Champagne. Thanks to Brussels' red tape and rules only France can produce Champagne. This nonsense clearly had to stop.

"We're leaving the EU - get over it!" I helpfully advised the store manager. "If I want to drink British Champagne, I will, and I refuse to bend to the ridiculous rules and regulations of unelected gnomes of Belgium" I cried. "Now will you sell me some British Champagne, or do I have to find somewhere that will?"

He relented, of course. And that evening I savoured my victory, toasting our brave new future with a glass of finest Strongbow Champagne, a new marque in the world of fizzy wine that is sure to give the Veuve Cliquots of this world a run for their money, once we are finally free from tyranny, able to sell our own champagne to whom we like, not at the whim of pettifogging Eurocrats.