Brendan O’Neill

It turns out rock didn’t die when Elvis joined the Army in 1958, or when the Beatles accepted their OBEs in the 1960s, or when Vivienne Westwood went from making filthy t-shirts for punks to being dressmaker-in-chief to the filthy-rich bourgeoisie. No, it died last Thursday, outside Liverpool St, when an NME distributor shoved the latest issue of the once rebellious mag into my hands and I glanced at its cover and realised it is a special issue on how to cope with life outside the EU. For real. In the words of NME editor Mike Williams, this latest issue is chock-a-block with ‘sage advice’ on how to cope with the post-Brexit ‘madness that’s engulfed the UK’. It’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen.

Who might save the Labour Party? That’s the question dividing dinner parties across London, causing spats at media soirees, getting socially conscious celebs scratching their heads. I have a different question. Why save the Labour Party? Save it to do what? To be what? To think what? The middle-class tussle over the future of Labour has become so obsessed with the stickler of which individual might make Labour electable again — safe, bland bet Owen Smith or ‘working-class northern girl’ Angela Eagle? — that its various factions have forgotten the purpose of a political party: to represent something, to say something, to embody popular opinion.

Never mind bureaucracy. Forget technocracy. Put to the back of your mind the rising lawyerocracy, like those 1,000 puffed-up, demos-fearing lawyers who yesterday insisted that the EU referendum result is not binding. For there’s a worse 'ocracy than those, one which has an even greater draining effect on politics, one which leeches the life and colour from public debate. And that’s the sneerocracy, the rise of a meme-making, mick-taking, cynicism-stoking Twitterati and commentariat who never — but never — give a politician the benefit of the doubt and whose trade is snide rather than substance. Consider the fall of Andrea Leadsom. I know, I know: the only thing we’re meant to say about Leadsom is ‘Ding dong, the witch is dead’.

Please, no, not Theresa May. Theresa the technocrat, who doesn’t do ideology, passion or even gossip, would be the worst PM for Britain right now. Post-Brexit Britain, where politics has become interesting again, after 17.5m souls gave an otherworldly establishment just the fright it needed, needs a leader who is properly political, up for debate, and maybe even a ruck. Not May, not this apolitical politician, not this woman who says ‘I will get the job done’ as if she’s applying for a position in HR rather than Downing Street. Having May run Brexit Britain would be like having a bank manager referee a Mike Tyson fight. You can tell a lot about May from how she talks. She speaks in CVese.

The most striking thing about Britain’s break with the EU is this: it’s the poor wot done it. Council-estate dwellers, Sun readers, people who didn’t get good GCSE results (which is primarily an indicator of class, not stupidity): they rose up, they tramped to the polling station, and they said no to the EU. It was like a second peasants’ revolt, though no pitchforks this time. The statistics are extraordinary. The well-to-do voted Remain, the down-at-heel demanded to Leave. The Brexiteer/Remainer divide splits almost perfectly, and beautifully, along class lines. Of local authorities that have a high number of manufacturing jobs, a whopping 86 per cent voted Leave. Of those bits of Britain with low manufacturing, only 42 per cent did so.

If you’ve heard a whirring noise in the background of today’s momentous vote, don’t worry: it’s just Tony Benn turning in his grave. Benn was one of Britain’s keenest, and most articulate critics of the European Union. He and other Labour grandees, along with top trade unionists, raged against the EU for being aloof and arrogant and for usurping parliament. Summoning up his Chartist soul, his love of the Levellers, his belief that radical Britons didn’t fight and die over centuries for the sovereignty of parliament just to see it overturned by some well-fed suits in Brussels, he would slam the EU for having not a ‘shred of accountability’ and for being second only to the Kremlin for its anti-democratic antics.

Who is really poisoning public debate? Who is it that has turned what ought to have been a smart and deep discussion about Britain and the EU into a prejudice-fest? I know we’re meant to think it’s the Leave campaign, with its cries of ‘The Albanians are coming!’ and ‘Oh my God, Turkey!’. Leave stands accused of fomenting xenophobia, of tapping into a ‘brainless paranoia’ among certain sections of the public, of ‘unleashing furies’. But what about Remain? The Remain side, to my mind, has proven itself just as adept at spreading prejudice. Scratch that: over the past few days Remain has proven itself better than Leave, a world-beater in fact, at fostering disdain for certain sections of society.

Yesterday, on the Thames, in a bizarre battle of political flotillas, we got a glimpse of the elite rage that motors much of the Remain camp. On one of the pro-EU boats, Bob Geldof, a knight, superbly well-connected, who has earned millions, made wanker gestures and gave a two-fingered eff-you to the people on the anti-EU boats — who were mainly fishermen whose livelihoods have been wrecked by Brussels. One of these fishermen, his face ashen with desperation, shouted — almost cried, in fact — about earning £50 a week and not knowing where his next mortgage payment is going to come from, largely thanks to EU regulations on the fishing trade. Wealthy, influential Geldof was laughing and jeering at people like that.

Something about the extension of the deadline for registering to vote in the EU referendum doesn’t add up. It even smells a bit fishy. Last night, the registration website crashed as tens of thousands of people tried to register before the midnight deadline; and in response, parliament today announced that it will pass emergency legislation to extend the registration period until midnight on Thursday. So in order to address a two-hour glut of registrations, the registration period will be stretched another 48 hours? Two days of further registration to mop up two hours’ worth of crashed, failed registrations? What’s going on?

Imagine using the politics of fear to try to get elected in a city as buzzing and optimistic as London. Imagine if the only way you felt you could appeal to Londoners was by making them feel petrified and promising that you, a decent, caring, saviour-style politician, would keep them safe from the myriad harms that surround them. That’s lame politics, isn’t it? It’s sad, downbeat, depressing politics. Oh, and I’m not talking about Zac Goldsmith, by the way. I’m talking about the Women’s Equality Party (WEP), whose peddling of fear makes Zac look like a rank amateur in the doom-spreading stakes.