It’s been five years since the Brexit referendum, and nobody is happy. Half a decade since the start of an embarrassing national project of self-harm that was supposed to restore Britain’s dignity, we’re prepared to shatter the UK over sausages, and not only is nobody happy, nobody’s even happy that everyone else is miserable.
Maybe it’s the weather, but something in the British national character has always been most comfortable in situations of universal disappointment; there’s always been that grim solidarity of quiet grumbling as we all try to survive the savage whims of whatever ham-brained aristocrats happen to be in charge. But that’s not what happened this time.
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