“Look,” an old acquaintance smirked, wagging his finger at me across a crowded room last week, “it’s Nigel Farage’s best friend”.

Here we go again. With Andy Burnham now openly talking about the possibility of re-joining the EU or reversing parts of the deal, Brexit has forced its way back onto the cultural agenda. It makes my blood boil that after millions of us stood up, and voted leave, the political class is trying to slide us back into the EU by the back door.

The arrogance is staggering. It’s as if our votes were a mistake that they now feel entitled to correct. And right on cue, the carping, the digs and the social bullying are back. Once again, I’m  a target for Remainers.

This depressing scenario also has a sense of déjà vu about it. It takes me back to that day in June 2016, when I was walking through Hyde Park to meet a friend. I was jubilant, my side had won. But when I called her to find out where she was, her first words were a groan: “Oh no, isn’t it terrible?” “No,” I replied. “I think it’s great.”

What happened next was a shock. She refused to meet me that day, and she didn’t speak to me again for a couple of years. A decade later, I am still that unusual creature: a right-wing, Brexit-voting professional who happens to move in an arty, liberal crowd. The irony is that these supposedly open-minded progressives are often the most intolerant people in the room.

It is shocking, but it is something I know to be true from bitter experience. Ever since Brexit opened up a division in society, the metro liberal elite have taken the moral high ground. Over the years I’ve been called a racist, bigot and was even asked if “I walk on my hands”. Only the other week, a date looked across the table and declared: “This conversation stops here if you still think Brexit is good.” 

It is difficult to explain how painful it is when once again you are pilloried simply because you disagree with them. Surely living in a democracy means having the freedom to hold your own views without fear of social reprisal? This kind of bullying behaviour brings out our most fundamental fears of rejection. You are not one of the gang, the voice in my head says, as once again I find myself biting my tongue at some trendy kitchen supper in north London. The moment I point out how unfair this push to undo Brexit is, they don’t engage in debate. Instead, they sneer and dismiss me as a Little Englander.

I was brought up in the free-speech 70s. Back then, being interesting, having something to say, meant you were welcomed in artistic circles. I remember one late-night debate when I drunkenly wrote my opinion on someone’s kitchen wall. We are still great friends.

Fast-forward to today and that spirit has gone. If I share a pertinent article about Brexit on Facebook, I find myself taking it down minutes later as I get a familiar knot of fear in my stomach. It is simply not worth the stress. But why should I self-censure? It makes me angry that people feel they have a greater claim to higher intellectual or moral knowledge than the millions who voted like me. 

Even now, as they feel vindicated by the shifting political landscape, the bullying hasn’t stopped. When they corner me at parties and smugly ask if I admit I was wrong, my answer is always a resolute no. Referendums are not a game of best of three, run by a government waiting for the public to finally give the correct answer. They are serious mandates governed by law, a binding constitutional promise between the state and its voters.

It is so hypocritical, isn’t it? We hear a lot from the progressive left about empathy and inclusion. But as Brexit re-enters the arena, I  have to ask: where has the respect and tolerance for other people’s opinions gone?