The English never get beyond their teenage glee at being able to drink. They go out in order to “get pissed”, and they “get pissed” in order to release pockets of emotion which, made ugly or maudlin by suppression, stink of mothballs or sour milk, and evaporate with first light. The English hate anything which doesn’t return them to the prosaic and the everyday. Grand passions and intellectuals are automatically suspect. They live under the sign of Necessity: "What can you do?" they burble, "It's a funny old world". They permit themselves the sole freedom of mockery. To a script written and edited by others, they make ironic additions in the margins. By deprecating their own existence and “not taking themselves too seriously,” they silently abstain from living. They relinquish control of their fate, placing it in the hands of a They about which they can cynically complain – "They are now saying butter is good for you, They’re saying it’s going to be the hottest summer for 400 years, They're introducing a new tax".. and so on. The English vote without thinking it will make a difference, for only They are voting. Each English person thinks of their own vote as superfluous. Politically, the English are among the most passive in Europe if not the world; or, if they are roused to passion, it's to rail against foreign bodies that threaten the stolid familiarity of what exists. The English, with few exceptions, are a nation of sleepwalkers.