While Theresa May tries to hang on long enough to “deliver” Brexit, any kind of Brexit, half her party are parading their wives, fancy new suits and egos in front of the press, hoping to take her seat when the music stops. Their narcissism is literally breath-taking. Many of these people barely know what a customs union is and they still think they can lead us out of this quagmire to a city on the hill where the streets are paved with gold.
About half those men and women want to flush the country down a giant toilet. The other half don’t want to, but aren’t prepared to do anything at all to take the toilet away. The leaders of both the main parties think “the people” voted to be flushed down that toilet, but can’t find a way to pull the chain. At the moment, their parties are “in talks”, but they can’t agree about the colour of the chain.
MPs are still opposed to everything and in favour of nothing. Most know Brexit isn’t a problem that can be solved to anyone’s satisfaction, since it was a blank slate for people’s fantasies, and fantasies don’t correspond all that well with the reality of unpicking 44 years of legislation.
It was the withdrawal agreement without the “political declaration”. Which mean that voting for it would have been like standing at the altar and pledging to love, honour and obey a man in a gorilla suit, while having no idea at all which man you’d see once the suit came off.
Faced with a line-up that included a man whose idea of diversity and inclusion is to talk about “picaninnies” and “watermelon smiles” and a woman who didn’t know that journalists record interviews, Theresa May felt like a gift from on high. Solid. Stalwart. A safe pair of hands. She was not going to miss her slot on the flower-arranging roster at church. She was not going to rock any boats.
Here you go! OK, so it’s not quite a unicorn. It is, in fact, both a unicorn and not a unicorn. It’s a Schrodinger’s unicorn. Now you see it, now you don’t. Will that do?