It seemed perfect. I was contacted several weeks ago with the information that Anglo-German company Gob Squad would be marking Brexit day, 29 March, with a six-hour show in Berlin about ambivalent British and European interrelationships. It would end one hour after the stroke of midnight at which the United Kingdom would leave the European Union. I was asked whether, as a sometime resident of Berlin, I would like to review the piece. By coincidence, I had privately made the decision – although not yet told friends and colleagues – that on the weekend previous to that date I would be moving to Berlin permanently. This, then, seemed a heaven-sent opportunity: a swansong review which might address trends in non- and post-dramatic theatre, the potential of the form to address real-world issues, and also allow me to work in some comments about the changes in Britain’s national attitude in recent years which have made me so unwelcome there.

That was the theory.

It took its first knock when a pathological Prime Minister Theresa May, having declared 108 times that 29 March was the date of departure come hell or high water, sought a postponement and got a bit of a one. Rather than likewise hold the show over for a fortnight, Gob Squad and the HAU theatres went ahead as originally announced. The show wouldn’t have the same massive significance, but its comments would be no less trenchant. In the event, the day had its own minor significance with the calling of Meaningful Vote 2.5 (like a run of webisodes between actual seasons of a TV series) on May’s unloved Withdrawal Agreement, and its equally inevitable third defeat. The company could address such psychotic stubbornness, refusal to admit of any alternative or to take responsibility for any aspect of the present situation.

In the event, the parallels were even more cutting. Presenting myself at the press desk to collect my ticket, I was told there was none there for me and directed to the main box office, who told me likewise. That was it – that was all the attention paid to me or to the problem. I hung around, but no-one made any effort to address the situation or even to acknowledge my continuing presence. A perfect analogy with governmental attitudes to the Brexit morass: no-one accepting any responsibility, no-one acknowledging that the situation amounted to any kind of problem, no bugger doing a damned thing. I’m built along lines that are not so much generous as profligate, so I feel justified in saying that all concerned persistently ignored the elephant in the room.

A phone call to the London press representative who had supposedly made the arrangements yielded no results. I stood there in front of the press desk like a colossal lemon until the scheduled start time, when I decided that if nobody else was going to give a fuck, neither would I, and left.

As well as a metaphor for Brexit, it also felt an appropriately cutting way to end my 30-year career as a reviewer. I don’t expect crowds prostrating themselves, but a touch of common courtesy would have been nice once in a while: maybe an invitation once to one of the major award ceremonies, perhaps once in my life earning the national average income, or a payment deal that lost as little as a quarter of its value over the time I spent as joint senior reviewer for the most respected international newspaper in the world, or even being paid in accordance with the plain, clear terms of my contract. All too much to wish for. In the end, even a bloody ticket to a show was too much to wish for.

Fuck the world, in its entirety and without exception. Goodbye.

Written for the Financial Times.