A Spanish journey
As a Scot and a natural born European I dug my ‘X’ hard into the ‘Remain’ box on the voting paper in the booth with the dedication of a surgeon …. and then I boarded a plane for Malaga, Spain.
By the time I reached my destination Britain was in turmoil. Lots of lightweight politicians were falling about like rotting plums in a gale, shown up to be the ineffectual opportunists that they are. The world altered in a matter of a few hours. Disarray UK. People chanted “We want our country back” – meaning England. Scotland, Northern Ireland and the real Ireland, the Republic, all want to remain with Europe. So did most of London, but for once it didn’t rule the roost. And the Gibraltarians were livid too. Over 98 per cent had voted to remain sane and European. Now they were abandoned, marooned. What next for 30,000 loyal ‘Brits’?
And what of the psychotically confused English? They want not England out of Europe, but Europe out of England.
The slap in the face
When my plane emptied us out at Malaga’s new airport there was a shock. Over 250 of us found ourselves in single file at the ‘Aliens’ section. No ‘EU Citizens’ fast track for us. This was the first of many symbolic events I encountered. Late, we got herded to the non-EU resident’s line. The lone security guard scrutinized our passports one page at a time.
“This will take for ages”, said the worried Scot behind me, annoyed he was losing hard won sun tanning hours. He was all prepared, dressed for the occasion in a thin T-shirt, half-trousers called pants, and flip-flops.
“Get used to it,” I responded, and looked him in the eye. “This is what Brexit has given us. We are now officially foreigners, the thing unionist millionaires warned we would become only if we voted to reinstate Scotland’s nationhood. I turned to the assembled line, and in my best after-dinner voice shouted, “Repeat, after me, everybody, ‘No soy Inglés. Soy Escocés!'”
The ripple of understanding that ran down the line turned into giggles and then applause. I opened my European passport at the photograph and repeated the phrase to the security guard in the glass booth but with a calculated addition.
“No soy un estúpida inglés. Soy escocés. – I am not stupid English. I am Scottish.”
The guard pushed back his military police issue cap, paused to check my eye line, until a huge involuntary grin broke across his stern visage. He let out a roar of laughter and waved us through in lickety-split time. I looked back to thank him, “Viva Espana!”
Each day transpired to offer similar confrontations: momentary scrutiny followed by my disclaimer, laughter from officials, pats on the back and warm handshakes. The reply was always the same, “Gracias escocia. Que son bienvenidos.”
What have we done?
But the frisson of angst those queuing had experienced jolted us; the hard reality of most of England voting for separatism was palpable. They recognised a serious regressive step had taken place, without their say so, a threat to their freedom.
Wherever I went, bank official, waiter, hotel receptionist, store assistant, they asked why British people had done what they had done. “Andy Murray – he came to Barcelona to train, no? Why do you stop talented players doing the same as he did? Please tell us?”
They admitted what the European Bank had done to Greece was inexcusable, but they felt change was on the way, they could see it in the election wins for the mass left-wing movement Podemos.
In any event Ukip had never begun its days on a platform to save the people of Greece. Farage has never been seen in meetings with Greek politicians, or in conversation with Yanis Varoufakis discussing ways to bolster the Greek economy. He wants them out of the UK, kebabs, souvlaki, and all! But hey, England will keep the Parthenon marbles.
That brazenly hypocritical excuse was chucked into the mix only lately by Farage when addressing the European Parliament, making his overtly racist declaration that he alone had achieved English purity. He’s England’s answer to Barry Goldwater. How did the English ever allow Farage a soap box? Not all liked what they heard, but not enough stopped him. The con artist declared, “This will be our independence day.”
And then it happened.
England’s over-paid, and over-there football team got their arses kicked by the one country they thought a joke, Iceland. It seemed to me all of Spain was watching. As Iceland’s team scored its second goal the cheers went up among the diners in Malaga’s narrow tapas bar alleys. It mattered no longer Spain had lost too.
A tall, grey haired, burly man got up from his table to reach the restaurant toilet. As he past my table and glanced at the television screen showing the match he said, “This is terrible. We’re in despair.” His Dublin accent was unmistakable. He gave the thumbs up sign and a wink. Now I was laughing. England had made itself a laughing stock. An English television commentator couldn’t believe it. “We have to accept a superior team got licked tonight!”
Nothing like Groundhog Day
The next day everybody who was anybody had resigned, was on the point of resigning, or refusing to resign but getting kicked out of office. Westminster skies were blazing with lethal trails of drones each a politician’s name inscribed on its nose. And there were no air raid shelters to be found.
A small miracle appeared in the Guardian newspaper. Seeing the chaos unfettered racism had reaped upon his country, a regular columnist wrote, “I have to accept that now Scottish independence is a certainty.”
In a symbolic moment I got talking briefly to a successful London dentist, on holiday in Malaga. He was as English as you can imagine, in manners, attitudes, and civility. He told me his grandfather and his father were Russian, refugees from Stalin’s regime.
And I remembered all the Russians who had fought in the second European war, and all the Poles too, millions who had fought and died side by side with Tommy and Jock and Paddy and Taffy, for freedom, for peace, but not for racism, or xenophobia, or intolerance, or the vomit of Nigel Farage.
And I heard myself say… adiós Inglés.