I’ve tried saying it. A middle-aged woman, especially if she used to be famous and beautiful and young, if her politics are anywhere left of centre, isn’t posh or anything even approaching middle class, and dares to be passionate about something, is too easily mocked to be worth listening to. I’m gambling on the chance that that same woman dead just might be.

I’ve taken the decision to end my own life because it seems that only something as big and shocking as this could make this country come to attention. I’ve tried other methods. I spent years protesting; raising my voice with those of others, massing our bodies together. I wrote songs and wore slogan T-shirts on television. I tried to shout in interviews. I got involved in debates and tried to influence voters. Violence seems like the only remaining option, and it’s only death that really stops you all in your tracks, isn’t it? I have no desire to murder anyone else, to strap bombs to myself and walk into town, or take a knife to the throat of a politician; I don’t have access to any other, more famous, people to kill for my cause (and it’s not like any of those acts get their various perpetrators’ views a more sympathetic hearing), and I don’t want to further the suffering of those poor animals at the Grand National by throwing myself under a racehorse. My tiny bit of fame, managed badly and drifting away after all these years but hopefully still worth something once I’m dead, is all the resources I have. So, pills, vodka and a strongly worded letter to every major media outlet in the country it is. If the forces of darkness, racism, hatred and capitalism have won, I don’t want to be around to see it. If there’s still a chance that any of you could be turned around, made to stop and think and reconsider how you’re treating the planet and other human beings, then this body is all the bargaining chips I’ve got left.

No, it’s not subtle. But we’re not living in a subtle time. Today’s ‘best’ politicians, the ones who get the populist votes, don’t do subtle. They do big filthy slogans and instant gratification and slather their never-kept promises on the sides of buses. BREXIT MEANS BREXIT. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. They make instant fleeting hits on people’s minds, rouse them up on hatred and other potent emotions. This feels like the only way of matching them.

Shrug me off if you like. Most of you would, if you hadn’t already realized that this letter will make such a damn good story. And you don’t know which other publications will be running with it, do you? You don’t want to miss out. Edit it down if you like; the whole thing will go online anyway, and you know the sites that publish me uncut will get the most hits.