Dear Europe,

I’m so sorry. Please understand, it’s not about you, it’s about us. Let me explain…

In English we use a literary device called ‘pathetic fallacy’ where human emotions are attributed to nature, like the weather for example. A great example of this is ‘Wuthering Heights’ by Emily Brontë (the one made famous by Kate Bush warbling: it’s me-a-Cathy…) where the jealous and desperate characters play out their destructive games against a backdrop of fierce thunderstorms and driving wind, reflecting their inner turmoil.

Yesterday in the UK it rained. Alot. As we went to the polling stations, huge swathes of our country were caught in a dramatic downpour. It brought a sense of foreboding to the voting. It felt like something seismic and catastrophic was happening. And it turns out, it was.

Somehow, a man who is almost certainly the only MEP any of us Brits know the name of, managed to convince over half of us that you guys are dirty, robbing bastards hell-bent on filling up our schools with migrants. He’s a funny fella, our Farage. He’s a crazy little mixed-up foreigner.

His great-grandfather was born to German parents who migrated here in the 19th century, around the time Emily Brontë enjoyed the freedom to go and study in Brussels. This was also around the time the East India Club was established in London; a gentleman’s club who Farage is a member of. The best thing about being in the East India Club (apart from there being no women or anybody nice) is that it’s tied up with the Public School Club and any member can enjoy the use of any of the 100 affiliated exclusive clubs around the world, a perk which will in no way be effected by leaving the EU coz they have a special membership card and are all rich and male and that.

Farage ADORES Europe. He must do; his wife is German and he employs her as his parliamentary secretary (he couldn’t do the job without her, bless him, until he has to coz she can’t get a UK work visa). He also used to work for Crèdit Lyonnais (a French Bank) and Natixis (a French financial services company) because he really loves the French argent!

But what he hates, what he really, really hates, is ‘coloured people’. Or at least, coloured people who he thinks want to come here and fuck with his right to a decent pint and a fag. So what he did, he and a few other like-minded twats, was he turned this whole referendum into a decision about who likes immigrants or not and this tapped into the feelings of a lot of people who live here and feel extremely poor and pissed off and were desperate for someone to make it stop and give them back the chance to own a house or see their GP or send their kids to school, all perfectly understandable desires but all of which have nothing to do with you, the EU, or immigration, and everything to do with our own elite bunch of right-wing anti-plebs whose powers have just been made ever-stronger.

I’m a children’s entertainer. This morning, me and my class of kids and parents trudged through the rain and thunder to come together to sing and play. I said we should sing some songs of Europe: let’s sing some French songs! Or some German songs! Of course we couldn’t because none of us can speak any languages – we’re bloody BRITISH after all… One Mum is from Finland. We asked her to sing us her national anthem but she couldn’t for crying.

You know, the English language is complicated. On it’s own, ‘pathetic’ means ‘miserably inadequate’. ‘Fallacy’ means ‘mistaken belief’. 

This morning, as rain slammed at the windows of our EU-funded community hall and the thunder cracked over our heads, we sang and we clapped and we played and we cuddled that bit harder, desperate to ignore for a while the devastating consequences of this grotesque pathetic fallacy…