Dogshit, if I'm honest.
There's been a recent trend of fiction in Britain which has been dubbed "Brexlit", novels which consciousnessly deal with Brexit in one form of another. Titles include Ali Smith's Autumn, Perfidious Albion, and even to a certain extent, something like Jasper Fforde's Constant Rabbit. All of them essentially come at the problem from a liberal-left perspective, which makes sense, when one considers that the Guardian/London Review of Books type scene is almost entirely dominated by the sort of mostly aimacable inner city, cosmopolitan, multicultural liberal middle classes. Inevitably, the sort of fiction is going to end up representing this milleu. It also makes sense in another way too, losers can often only deal with their failure and give themselves a sort of consolation prize by creating a retroactive victory in the works of cultural propaganda after the fact. You can see it in its extreme case in white supremacist Southern USA, where they managed to turn the South's treasonable insurrection against the legitimate democratic government of America in defence of the right to own other humans as the Lost Cause, a noble crusade to protect a humble Southern way of life destroyed by northern invaders, subsequently unleashing the horrors of the carpetbaggers and the unrestrained negro rapist onto their once fertile ground. W.D. Griffiths' Birth of a Nation helped cement a propaganda myth in lurid, gratuitous epic form, sustaining a lie that continued right up to the 50s, with Gone With the Wind being a toned down, but effectively identical narrative. Culture becomes a means for the losers of history to sublumate their own often crushing defeats into a safer realm, where it can be dealt with, a narrative cultivated to their desire, and thus never actually manage to deal with the problem in the realm of actual politics. One can see the torture and agony of post war Japan's cultural and global position in almost every Japanese TV and film production after it - the spectre of the Hiroshima mushrook cloud lurks across everything from Godzilla to Akira.
To a far less extreme degree of course, the recent trend of Brexlit is a similar, trauma-denying, sublumating act of wishfufliment. The liberals, and their worldview, collapsed in 2016, and in Britain at least, has never recovered. The liberal centrist elites, incapable and unwilling to even engage in one millisecond of self reflective criticism over why they fucked the Remain campaign so badly, engaged from 2016-2019 in the longest, most prolonged act of hysterical, tone deaf, whining, miserable hissyfitting perhaps seen in politics. Recasting themselves in pathetically self-valorising faux-indentities, the worthless liberal shits pretended they were valiant noble knights defend their country against a hoarde of ravenous semi-human filth, failing to realise at all that the economic system of neoliberalism they by-and-large supported created the conditions that partly created Brexit, and equally failed to realise that the supposed 'liberal values' they ridiculously inflated from a set of principles into some kind of holy virtues, were ones they barely supported either. They ignored the fact that their beloved, useless cretin-in-chief Obama was deporting migrants at record speed, ignore the fact the culture of migrant demonisation, border obsessions, crude racist paranoid fantasies about "scroungers" abusing the system and Pearl clutching hysterical tirades about the supposed "cultural balkanisation" (to use Trevor Phillips, the truly laughable head of the EHRC, term) of communities under the weight of multiculturalism, was created, fed, nutured and allowed to proliferate under Blair and New Labour, the supposed period of 'pragmatic centrist governemt' liberals constantly hark back to like senile geriatrics vaguely recalling the pallid shade of a memory of better times. They forget the rancid islamaphobia and relentless targeting of Muslims was generated by Blair during his whole hearted support of the War on Terror (and to see the sights of people like Alistair Campbell, a glorified Julius Streicher with a drink problem, waltz about pretending to be Mr fucking oh-so-principled, after having allowed the toxic politics of islamaphobia to be unleashed in his role in creating the dodgy dossier in the run up to the war in Iraq, is a truly pathetic and shameful sight). Liberals are truly dumb cunts, they have no knowledge about anything, nor do they even want to, or even probably can, remember or know about any of this. The lesson of the early 21st century (although it was proven in the 19th and the 20th as well) is that liberals have lost their right to be considered the gaurantors of liberalism. They responded to the Brexit defeat with about as much emotional maturity and intelligence as a teenager would breaking up with their girlfriend, absurdly overexaggerating the supposed wonderous state they were previously in (the EU as a cuddly liberal paradise, as long as one ignored the drowned migrant corpses on the coast of the Mediterranean or the Greek truck drivers killing themselves due to austerity) followed up by a truly vomit inducing spectacle of jumped up, wallowing self-pity and narcissistic denial.
In that sense, Chris Beckett's book is a good and accurate depiction of this particular stratum of people's opinions and their response to Brexit. Their abject political cowardice, smug self satisfaction, glib regurgitated barely thought out talking points, nauseating sense of arrogance, startling incuriosity about why they lost, almost pathological inability for humulity, staggering levels of stupidity, amazing capacity for self-delusion, and a new found penchant for anti democratic authoritarianism that would make certain aristocrats of the 19th century whince in its outpouring of contempt for they people they failed to convince, is captured well. While Beckett is obviously not a pro Brexit fan, he is more subtle and nuance than most of the other works I mentioned, exposing the liberal piss weasels logical absurdities and glib, appaling opinions. To watch the main character, Richard, bit by bit, move further and further away from their position, to the point where he can even use his imagination to conceive of what it might possibly be like to be on the other side of the argument, is truly funny to read. One recalls Daniel Keye's Flowers for Algernon, where the mentally disabled main character gradually develops more and more intelligence, discovering first in drips, then in leaps and bounds, the range of the potentiality of his mind. Watching a liberal gain sentience is rather amusing, if only in the same way some distant alien observer seeing the first chimp jump the evolutionary barrier and start to use a stick as a tool must have done.
Unfortunately, the positives end there. Beckett, despite mildly critical and occasionally sharp in his representation of the metropolitan liberals, is himself, still, ultimately one himself. The book is laced with the same kind of dull liberal talking points and ideas. To take this weird, tired, and overused point of "tribes" (currently in vouge by morons these days as a catch all term to describe political disagreement, reducing the complexities of politics to the simplicity of a sort of anthropological primitive mythology), which already hopelessly mystifies and moralises the issue, and projecting it forward so the two sides become literal tribes fighting each other, is so fucking dumb and lame it's unreal. It's precisely the kind of simplifying stories that he's supposedly criticising in the book. The dystopia aspects are generic, weak, and unoriginal. Of course, China are the big evil, one of the officials of the regime even being described as wearing a "Mao suit", as if the Cold War never ended, with the "Mao suit" (actually technically called the Neru suit) being the modern day symbolic equivalent of the old Fu Manchu image of long sharp talons, whispy moustache and ornate mandarin clothing as a representation of something evil, vaguely foreign, and probably Oriental. This crude ham-fisted liberal fantasy is punctured by even stupider class politics. As for all liberals, class is treated as a form of culture, with "Remain" being represented as very well off London middle classes, and "Leave" being represented as outer suburb, run-down, 'left behind', rough Chavtown. This fits his dumb idea of 'tribes', compartmentalising groups into easily delineated boxes, but is dumb as shit. For one, the fact that most Leavers were not left behinders, but pretty well off, property owning petit bourgeois ex or current tories, with large levels of support amongst the rural middle classes, is an irrelenvce to him. As is the equal fact that much of the inner city metropolitan Remain leave were poor, indetted, precarious, insecure, renting young people, who by any stretch of the definition are working class, voted for Remain. Liberals can't see class, and when they do they can only see it through a relentless preoccupation with the symbolic, generic, and artificially generated signifies of "class" (rough, preferably northern accent, maybe a flap cap, football shirt, rottweiler dog firmly gripped in big Gammon hand, down the pub every day = worker, and posh, turtleneck sweater wearing, glasses wearing, frappucino drinking, avocado on toast eating, Lacan spouting, multicultural restaurant eating and Guardian reading = middle class). It's a vision of class that is as stupid as it is insulting, as if no working class person has every eaten at a Curry house, or that no middle class person has ever drank heavily in a pub.
Of course, slippages as to whom the real enemies of the Remoaners pops in occasionally, that of the radical Left, represented during this time in the fevered liberal imagination in the demonic incantation of Jeremy Corbyn. Demonized beyond recognition, lied against at every turn, denounced by almost all 'respectable' liberal-left opinion makers as some kind of Frankenstein's monstrosity of Hitler, Stalin, Trotsky and Osama bin Laden all at once, this crude spectre ran untrammaled across the liberal's increasingly rotting brains like the image of God must have been to medieval peasants, a totally imaginary concoction that nevertheless had absolute and total reality to them, causing them spasms of ever increasing insanity. It eventually led most of the liberal slime mould into incessantly crying to Corbyn to support the hated and ridiculous second referendum position, then attacked him relentlessly when he electorally tanked on precisely that position (which of course, was their plan all along). By attacking Corbyn so incessantly, they effectively were the unofficial propaganda machine for the Tories, effectively allowing the only opposition to Boris Johnston be destroyed, this opening the door to his accent to power despite him being the face of the very Leave campaign they spat and roared their teeth at like the worthless, pathetic, stupid, scummy little diahorrea specks they are. Richard, the main character, at one point, says that Corbyn is "too left wing and not pragmatic enough", which is ironic, considering Corby was lambasted by Remaniacs for being precisely *too* pragmatic when it came to Brexit, taking the sensible, sane and correct course of moderate support for the EU buttressed by the desire of genuine reform, against the Remaniacs hard core extremist lunacies. There's a truly laughable bit when one of the future historians says to the other that Lenin was "the ultimate middle class expert", his goal of leading the working classes to communism "led through famine and terror and created a new and brutal class which, seventy years later, would kick away even the pretence of communism, appropriate the hitherto socialised means of production, and become a particularly ruthless capitalist oligarchy of the exact kind Lenin had claimed to be an expert in overthrowing".
This jambled pot pouri of generic anti communist talking points is, by the way, literally being spoken off while the two future historians are walking through a climate devastated wasteland, with poverty stricken shanty towns everywhere and bits of city underwater. It seems even while walking amongst the literal ruins of capitalism's enforced holocaust, the bourgeoisie still cannot retain their urge to hate communism, like some kind of in built race memory that is kept alive even though the historical conditions that justified such hatred have been totally shattered.
So it's politics are vapid, inane, shallow drivel. The characters suck too. Richard and Michelle are boring non entities with nothing interesting about them, and all the other surrounding characters are stereotypes. Their romance is forced, unconvincing, and reduces the plot to a kind of tawdry melodrama, where true love can overcome hate and blah blah all that crap. The writing is atrocious, lifeless and pedestrian, with dialogue so utterly contrived, fake sounding, cliche written and awful you can practically feel it clanging in your head as you read it.
The endings rubbish too. In short, don't bother reading at all. There's nothing of interest to note in its angle on Brexit, and it sucks as a piece of sci fi. As a sort of picture postcard, looking back on the positions of the liberal left in Britain from 2016-2019 with the benefit of hindsight, near enough to have real insight to how they were but at a position where enough dust had settled to be able to view it somewhat more objectively, it has some value (and indeed, in 2022, after the horrors of the pandemic and the mountingly apparent climate armageddon, Brexit and its related issues seems like seems like some kind of half remembered fever dream, one everyone can seemingly recall experiencing but one that also no one can quite believe actually happened). There could have been value in this approach, contextualising the small little lives of people in their (our) time, showing how petty and irrelevent our issues were compared to the future disasters oncoming, rather akin to how we now view the pre-WW1 Edwardians, stuck in a seeming glorious summer of tranquil liberal peace before the storm hit, each image of their middle class beachside adventures utterly stained with melancholy longing and impregnated with a sense of inevitable foreboding. But it doesn't do that, and the result sucks.