Melissa Kite

How it feels to be the only Brexiteers in the village

We are persona non grata to the enlightened liberals of suburban Surrey

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We are the only Brexiteers in the village. That, at least, is how it feels.

Out they come, the far left bullies, on to the streets of Westminster waving their placards and calling for the referendum result to be cancelled. And that is bad enough.

But inside the suburban Surrey homes of Middle England the enlightened liberals send out even more hostile vibes.

Admit you’re Brexit and you’ll never eat my vegan lasagne again, is the message they transmit. Personally, I’m delighted to be persona non grata at the homes of my more vegan acquaintances, even the dirty ones who eat meat secretly at weekends.

Why one should feel bullied in polite company is an anomaly in itself. Why anyone who calls themselves enlightened should make Brexit voters so scared of reprisals that they keep their mouths shut at dinner parties is an indication of what we are dealing with here.

It’s all getting perfectly ridiculous. The Brexit millions are like the silent majority in America who dare to vote Republican — repeatedly — when the so-called enlightened insist this is impossible. The elephant at every polite gathering screams: yes, but the majority voted the other way!

The problem is the so-called enlightened are so downright rude.

‘Boris Johnson, Prime Minister, ha!’ said a friend to me this week, as if that made sense. I should have said: ‘What’s your point?’ But I said: ‘Well, you know.’ Because she had that look, the look that says: ‘I’m enlightened. Agree with me or I’ll kick you to death.’

A friend of mine was evicted from someone’s Facebook page the other day. The woman in question put out a very grand status update issuing the following decree: ‘Anyone who supports Donald Trump leave my page now!’

He told me he was thinking of sending her a private message admitting he was such a person but asking if she would consider letting him stay because he enjoyed looking at the pictures she posted of her dogs.

‘Why do you want to look at an anti-Trumpist’s dog photos, is the question you’ve got to ask yourself,’ I told him. He agreed, but said they were particularly cute pictures. It is getting very tricky to enjoy oneself casually and partake in carefree pursuits, I admit.

The number of movies and books available to us is shrinking day by day as authors and actors out themselves as rabid Remoaners.

I don’t think any of these people actually likes the EU that much. No one does. They just can’t believe they ended up on the losing side. A lot of these campaigners want to overturn Brexit solely so they can be back on the winning team again, where they like to think they belong.

In any case, it makes for dodgy viewing possibilities. The builder boyfriend and I turn on the TV in the evenings, go straight past anything to do with the BBC, obviously, and channel surf, hopelessly looking for a film or serial that doesn’t involve someone who has denounced Brexit until we are left with nothing but QVC and Salvage Hunters.

If Drew Pritchard strays off the patina on an opaline wall light I’m done for, viewing wise. I’ve Googled his name and Brexit and not come up with anything but I could be wrong. I am so finely poised on the edge of having no access to art, culture or visual relaxation I am willing to beg Drew, and the presenters of Escape to the Country, not to venture into this for the love of all that is holy about light entertainment.

If the nice ladies on the shopping channels interrupt their explanation of the mattifying qualities of colour-correcting foundation to whinge about how prices might go up by £1 a tube if it becomes more difficult to import after 31 October, that’s it, I’ve got nothing.

I’m so pent up I’m going to go bananas on Brexit day. I have instructed the builder boyfriend to get ready to hoist the union flag at midnight on 31 October. If there are any more patriots in Surrey, hiding behind closed doors, do come knock on my door and join in the celebrations.

I’m not holding my breath. ‘We want a people’s vote!’ said a girl who keeps a horse in the field next to mine.

‘Did you not vote in the referendum?’ I asked her.

‘We want a People’s Vote!’ she repeated, seemingly unable to hear.

No amount of me trying to explain that there had been a vote, or her horse neighing for her to give it a treat, would shake her off this riff.

‘The people had a vote,’ I pointed out. Then, speaking slowly and loudly as though talking to a person hard of hearing: ‘Were… you… not… able… to… vote? In the referendum? Did… you… not… manage… to… get… yourself… to… the… polling… station?’

‘We want a People’s Vote!’ she said.