Like most people who voted to remain in the European Union I was appalled by the subsequent announcement that the UK’s freshly won buccaneering freedom would be celebrated in a Festival of Brexit.
The mind boggled. What horrors awaited us? Compulsory street parties with meat paste sandwiches? An Alf Garnett retrospective? A national curtain-twitching competition?
I like a Spitfire flypast as much as the next middle-aged man but the idea of a whole festival dedicated to the sour, reductive, exclusionary, pale, stale spirit of Brexit repulsed me. I could think of nothing worse.
So it comes as a surprise to find myself actually looking forward to the shindig scheduled for next year. Why? Because the Festival of Brexit has been prised from the clammy hands
