Euphoric recall. Or more likely PTSD. It was like we were in a time warp. Back in the madness of theBrexityears. When otherwise sensible people lost all sense of reason. And when the mad became madder still. The days of betrayal and surrender. When our closest allies for the previous 70 years became our deadliest enemy. Time to stare them down. Britons never, never, never shall be slaves. We take no shit from anyone.
Keir Starmer’s EU reset went to the wire. Of course it did. Every negotiation with Brussels always does. It’s in the terms and conditions. There was no way the EU was going to give away something on agricultural standards without getting something on fishing in return. You don’t want to encourage other countries to believe they will get a better deal by leaving the EU. Even by the time of the final communique there were still plenty of loose ends. Nothing is agreed until everything is agreed. Remember that? Argh!
Still that didn’t stop some of the Brexit lunatics from voicing their opinions long before even an outline of a deal was announced. They already had their narrative. This was a surrender on an unforgivable scale. Daniel – unbelievably now Lord – Hannan was writing on X that Britain had become Europe’s very own gimp. Squeezed into a black leather jump suit with a ball in our mouth. Sometimes you wish Danny would keep his fantasies to himself.
Then there was David – unbelievably now Lord – Frost. What is it about Brexit that led to so many people who had objectively made British citizens less well off getting promoted to the upper chamber?
Frosty the No Man was desperately trying to rewrite history. Again. He has been doing that for more than five years now. Our very own Lady Macbeth trying to wash away the blood. Boris Johnson’s Brexit negotiator whose whole life is now devoted to trying to uncover the person who negotiated such a bad deal. He was trying to persuade himself that he had always known his fishing deal was rubbish but that the EU would cut him some slack now because they felt sorry for him. The man needs help.
It’s as if every Brexiter has had a memory wipe. Has no recollection of how deals are made. That the essence of any negotiation is give and take. That there need to be rules which both sides are obliged to follow. But this was also too much for Boris. He went mad on gimp masks too. God knows what you might find in his internet search history. Let’s hope Carrie hasn’t been keeping tabs on him. Here was how the world worked. Britain was at the top, telling every other country what to do. Anything else would be a total betrayal of our sovereignty.
Come late Monday morning, a deal of sorts had been negotiated and António Costa, the president of the European Council; Ursula von der Leyen, the president of the European Commission, and Keir Starmer were ready to face the media at the Lancaster House press conference. Costa went first. Trying to put everyone to sleep. He has the air of someone who has grown used to the fact that he seldom says anything interesting. It’s how he got the job. Everything was marvellous, he mumbled. This was a new chapter.
Von der Leyen was slightly more animated. She was pleased the EU and the UK had reached solutions. We were entering a new era of post-Brexit relations. A security and defence partnership. A deal on energy, fish and food. The youth experience scheme. Downgraded from a youth mobility scheme. A sop to the Brits. On no account should anyone think the UK had backtracked on free movement. Better to think of overseas students living entirely in virtual reality.
Then came Keir. Flushed with success after his trade deals with India and the US. This was a triumph. No return to the single market or the customs union. But the next best thing. A reminder that British fishers sell more than 70% of their catch to the EU as we don’t like the ones they are selling. It was time to look forward to the future. To move on from the same stale old fights.
Though it was the past the British media wanted to interrogate. Hadn’t we surrendered to the EU? We had sold out our fishers. We had become a nation of rule-takers. Brexit derangement syndrome had gripped the broadcasters. Keir gently reminded everyone he was creating jobs, facilitating trade and growth.
Even after nine years, it was still too soon to say the obvious. That Britain had voted to make itself poorer. That Brexiters had radicalised themselves. No one had been insisting we leave the single market and the customs union during the referendum campaign. That had only become a truth some time later. So all Starmer was trying to do was to make the country just a little bit better off. You’d have thought from the reaction that this was a major schism.
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GB News could barely contain itself. The Tories were threatening to undo all this, the reporter quavered. Er … How exactly? They aren’t about to win an election any time soon. If ever. As if to prove how unserious the Conservatives have become, Kemi Badenoch chose to call a press conference in a broom cupboard in the afternoon. Just to embarrass herself. The broadcasters could barely be bothered to cover it as the sound continued to cut out. We could have been underwater. Not waving but drowning.
Priti Patel went first. Luckily for her she was totally inaudible. She will appreciate this in later years. Then came Kemi, declaring that Starmer had broken her five golden rules. Rules that even her own MPs don’t know or care about. Rules that even the Victorians would have thought nuts. Most Brexit voters now think Brexit was a bad idea. They just want things to return to how they were without anyone reminding them that they had voted for it.
We ended with Victoria Atkins and the fish. Vicky had a pet hake who was determined to gasp out his manifesto. “I, Harry the Hake, do solemnly declare that I will live and die British. I would rather be left to rot on the jetty than be fed to some Frenchie or Kraut. God save the queen. Sorry, king.” It had been that kind of a day.