A friend recently asked me how my sanity was holding up? “I am saner than a sunbathing penguin in a heatwave.” Was my reply. Then I was professionally asked for my POV on the Brexit deal by a journalist. My gut reaction was to tell em to rack off, sod off and to leave me alone. Which I did. When I of a countries populace can Foxtrot Oscar what do I care. When its even clearer that our Political “Elite,” care even less, does it matter what anyone thinks anymore. When a modern capitalist dystopia is reduced to apathy, that should illustrate the point more than any verbiage from me can. Lets quote Boris Johnson at this point in this opening paragraph. “Fuck business.” He actually said that. It’s been downhill at a breathless pace since that quote, and for the record I am holding on by my finger nails as I don’t want to go down with him or you. All this without mentioning the pandemic. So far that is another Boris “Victory,” that victory eclipses the sun, really. Blessed are the incompetent for they shall inherit the Earth. Science met politic in the Downing Street garden, and science was eclipsed by an ignorant glowing fantastical plan of business as usual. If only we could power the country with political egos. Yet that question of how I feel about Brexit stuck with me.

How do I explain the bitter sweet alienation of this?

By the end of it no one but Downing Streets elite cared. Even Europe didn’t give a damn anymore. I sure as hell didn’t. The Japanese have a perfect word to describe the adolescent frolics of British politicians. “Chunibyo.” It’s usually used in reference to teenage delusions as kids try to stand out by claiming everything from super powers through to superior intellect. Which if I apply it to British political parties explains a lot. Chunibyo politics, economics, and even Chunibyo public health reactions. Then a lot of our media embraced the same method, and in synch with Chunibyo journalism, we finally arrive at the great event. Not to stop there if I look at politics right now, I should add another concept I have been playing with. Political Pollution. Add the internet, add the lockdown, add a touch of insanity and a pinch of cocaine, then stir it, heat it up a bit and Voila! Victory.

I have just watched Britain walk off the international stage. I have watched the British people silenced by delusional stupidity. I have been silenced by the same. I have cut up my press card. I became a ghost, but even that wasn’t enough, nope, now I am a zero, just an observer, a point between action and reaction, my pictures will simply be what I see. Nothing more and nothing less, but without journalisms cosy complacent blanket will they matter anyway? Seriously when there is no-one worth voting for, what point freedom of speech? When all I expect from a government is interference, what point freedom of any kind. Welcome to a place where you have to think twice if you identify as British, because apparently you have to be English, Welsh, Scottish or Irish. Welcome to a country where freedom of speech comes without any responsibility for your words, welcome to a silent future, and welcome to stasis. When truth and reality are made irrelevant what point in words about anything, because lies are the real thing now, and liars are the only representatives we have on offer, but then these words are not about Brexit, they are about how I feel.

They are about a photograph. It had to be a bad photograph to. Its a photo of how I feel. An illustration. I started by making small placards, then initially added a lucky cat, that was too good, so I tried a solar dog wobbler, still to good and strangely accurate. Via a robot I could see it was wrong. Using brexiteer memes the photo was still wrong. Then it dawned on me. Use the pigeons, nobody cares what pigeons think or do, whether they live or die is irrelevant to of people. It hinged on the Vote Pig/eon placard too. In lockdown I took a deliberately bad picture to illustrate a truth. When no one is worth voting for, you are not represented, and silenced. Yet with irrelevant heart, I publish these words, a zero expecting zero, and then turn my back on them.