By then it was autumn, tending winter, and the air was bitter. The Europe vote, contrary to reason and expectation, had gone against the Continent and in favour of old and ugly passions. That skinheaded nationalism which for years had not dared to raise its voice for shame was now unbound. The contempt and anger seemed to become more intense the further back Britain looked along the route of refugees fleeing massacres and famine in places so much less civilised than here. The French and Germans were bad enough, the Romanians worse, and the Bulgarians beyond the pale. All those desperate thousands from Syria were the sort of liars who would pretend to be children when they were in truth fully nineteen years old, just to get their hands on the lush and unmerited hospitality of our gracious country. In between tales of their mendacity, the tabloid press sprinkled references to the Spitfire Summer of 1940 when Britain stood alone, alongside hints and allegations of migrant rape. The headline splashes were surrounded by teasing portraits of the child daughters of celebrities.