European Taxi Drivers as Choric Characters

Part one.
Last year we caught a taxi in Narbonne. It was just post-Brexit. Anne felt the need to apologise in expansive tones for our nation's idiocy. The driver sucked on his gauloises, gave a Gallic shrug, and whatever other stereotypical movements you feel like adding for colour, and said in French something like "one day a great Marine Le Pen will come and wash all the scum off the streets."
We smiled and travelled on in silence and tipped too much.

Part two.
This morning we caught a taxi from Split to the airport. He asked us what we thought of Brexit. Anne waxed and waned, and did the full eclipse. He agreed. Anne was happy. Atonement. All was well with the world. Then, as we neared Trogir, the driver told us that he'd travelled the world in the merchant navy and that in New Caledonia the blacks are a problem, and that their third-born is forced to become a 'transvestit' and that this is a magnet to 'sick people' who are attracted to transvestits.
We smiled and travelled on in silence and tipped too much.

​But, hey, Brexit...