Now is the time, leftists of Britain! Anarchists, Marxist-Leninists, Trot(skyi[st/te])s, Maoists, and social democrats: YOU GET TO CHOOSE WHAT TO DO WITH THE EU.
If you chose the path of fighting British imperialism by linking it up more closely with French and German imperialism than US imperialism, this is what you have to look forward to tomorrow:
You walk out onto the street in King’s Cross. All seems calm at first. You think back on your vote to remain in the EU yesterday, following the advice of Paul Mason. You feel good. You light up a John Player Special Menthol cigarette, and puff contentedly.
You slowly become aware of a noise, as if someone is slowly turning up the volume on a televised football match. You look up to see:
The hordes of French workers who have taken the Eurostar to London! They’re waving red flags and screaming in that language of theirs!
You stop one of them. “Bonjour,” you say. “Bonjour et socialism.”
“Oui,” he responds. “Oui.”
You smile. He smiles. You embrace.
“So we’re doing it then? Sweeping away the neo-liberalism and ringing in a golden era of Western European socialism?”
“Sí,” he says. “Por supuesto.”
“What took you so long? I mean, we’ve been talking about this for years.”
“Sure, but we couldn’t bear the idea of building socialism until we were sure our best mates, the Britishers, were all in.”
“Best mates!” you scream, embracing the Frenchman.
And socialism swept across the EU forever and ever.
If you chose the glorious path of accelerationist Lexit, this is what you will experience tomorrow:
The cries ring out as soldiers re-occupy the Chelsea Barracks. A spitfire flies overhead, and you dive down to the ground as something explodes at close range. A kindly old man helps you back up. “Those pesky doodlebugs,” he says.
Nigel Farage is addressing a group of admiring city gents in top hats and tails, assuring them that women will never get the vote. A series of antiquated vehicles pass by, each shinier and stranger than the last, until the streets fill with horse carts and horse muck.
“We’ve escaped the bonds of the 8-hour day,” says Farage, who seems to be getting younger by the minute, “political correctness has finally been abolished.” A member of the crowd delivers a gleeful kick to a passing pantomime actor in blackface.
You turn down an alleyway to escape, and meet with the horrifying stench of sewage. The inhabitants are literally throwing their shit into the street. You break into a run, but at the intersection you lose your way: the whole of London is enveloped in fog.
“The thing is, this referendum was never really about the EU.” Farage’s voice is amplified as it echoed down the alley. “It was about bringing Britain back to the glorious past.”
You jump into a stagecoach and mumble a destination to the driver. He nods, and you ride on south past coffee houses full of cotton traders and bakeries belching smoke. A man in rags tries to drag you out of the coach and expound on the true gospel of Swedenborgianism.
The horse begins to whinny as you pass empty pastures where the locomotive hearse used to speed the dead to London’s Necropolis. London itself seems to have long disappeared. All the familiar streets and houses are gone. You ride on through the fields and forests to a small settlement on a hill.
“Welcome,” says Gerrard Winstanley. “Let’s try not to fuck it up again this time, alright?”