EXPAT TALK

More dates in the diary, more ‘will-we-won’twe-and-when’ debates. Anthony Martin plans to enjoy every last minute of remaining, but does see some key advantages in the UK leaving

Hey, it’s May, and we Brits are still here (hanging on by the skin of our teeth) but still here, still Europeans and still doing, well… Europeany things.

Not yet are we a small, lonely, friendless island, floating in the midst of two seas and a channel. Not yet have we reverted to our bowler hats and rolled umbrellas for, as we are still members of the gang, we can, should we choose, cycle around wearing a striped T- shirt with a beret and garlanded with a string of onions. We could also of course, don a Loden coat and a green felt hat mit feather or even casually throw an Armani jacket over our shoulders and, with our license to pinch bottoms tucked in our pocket, cruise the Avenidas, And we have permission, after our kleftiko dinner is finished, to throw the plates on the floor happy in the knowledge that our hand-carved Dutch wooden clogs will protect our feet from the broken china.

Because – hurray – we are still officially Continentals. We are those people who, as teenagers, we used to envy (they were cool before cool existed). We may have had the music, but they had the style, the chic and the je ne sais quoi. And right now we are still members of the club – the one that is now made up of 27.5 individuals who all wear the tie, (a natty little number in blue with gold stars) but each chooses to wear it in a different way.

And there is the nub of the problem: some tie it in a Windsor knot, others a half-Windsor, or wear it as a cravat, or a bandana, or even to hold up their trousers. All making the point that they want the tie that gives access to doors that otherwise would remain closed, but that they will wear it in the manner of their own choosing. That is because all are individuals who for centuries have done their own thing and would like to continue to do so. It is perhaps a mite unfortunate that one of those things was habitually killing each other but what the heck, we have since kissed, made up and moved on. And long may our uneasy and mistrusting relationship remain.

There’s a big but here.... However, thinking clouds and silver linings, I do see certain opportunities arising from the UK’s impending/pending/ possible/maybe departure. I am presently waiting for a rather important delivery from Amazon and if it doesn’t come into stock before the UK leaves this civilised world there could well be duty to pay if tariffs are put in place.

But historically, when duties are imposed on goods the result is smuggling, something Brits, from as early as the 13th century, have been rather good at. With many miles of poorly protected, easilyaccessible shores, smuggling was a major and profitable trade for entire towns.

Forget Nissan leaving Sunderland for Japan, or even Jaguar/Land Rover going from Solihull to Slovakia, because it is possible that a mini economic power-house could arise around our glorious south-eastern coast

Passengers flying out of UK airports would once again get there four hours early in order to spend their holiday money in the born-again duty-free shops and Ryanair could increase its profits by charging extra for each bottle of Gordons or carton of Rothmans taken on board.

The towns could be regenerated with nocturnal activities for the retired octogenarians of Eastbourne, Worthing, Hove and even as far west as St Ives. Instead of sitting in a bus shelter on the promenade with a knotted handkerchief on their heads and staring at the sea all day they would be sleeping soundly after a hard night’s work offloading dutyfree delicacies such as Camembert, Brie and Reblochon from small boats,

They could throw away their Zimmer frames and velcrofastened slippers and enjoy the excitement of running from the excise men and border guards. They could hide behind the groynes on the beaches and later meet up at the pub with their fellow miscreants for fois-gras nibbles at 3am, sharing a well-deserved bottle of Rémy Martin XO with the black-marketeers, whose heads will have risen over the parapet as they enjoyed their new-found profession. The camaraderie between such fellows could be wonderous; instead of hanging around God’s waiting room, relationships could develop, with the romance of illegal scurrying around under a moonlit sky rejuvenating the elderly and reducing the waiting times within the NHS on the southern coast. And that’s what I call a win-win situation.

Who knows, perhaps the mop-haired blond politician and his tweedy beer-swilling sidekick were on to something. We are still officially Continentals. We are those people who as teenagers we used to envy. They were cool before cool existed