Brexit. I know, I’ve tried not to mention it, but it’s a bit like a spider on the wall. You can’t not see it. Surprisingly, there are some good things about it. Every political correspondent this side of the Nile must be claiming the sort of overtime that means champagne and Ferraris all round.
Channel 4’s John Snow seems to be having a whale of a time.
Suddenly, minor ministers in departments we didn’t even know existed, like the Ministry for Mouse Welfare, can become 20-minute sensations by resigning and getting on the front page, even if we don’t quite understand why they resigned.
Some appear to have resigned because they woke up in the morning and discovered the deal they had agreed to the night before wasn’t what they meant at all, which makes Cabinet deal-making sound like a grubby drink-fuelled one night stand when you regretfully wake up in the wrong bed on the wrong side of town.
The sales of cough sweets down in that there London must be doing well. Everyone is getting distinctly croaky.
But mainly, Brexit is like the Plasticine your kids used to play with. All the colours have been mooshed into one great ball, and now the toddlers are throwing an epic tantrum because they want just blue stuff out.
Look at Treeza. Never thought I’d say this about a Tory PM, but I feel sorry for her. The job is undoable. Having said that, she’s really managed to make it even worse. It’s like me trying to build flat-pack furniture. Yes, it’s difficult, but do you know what makes it even tougher? Refusing to read the instructions and battering on regardless.
She’s had two years to build this particular bedside cabinet, but when the Great Deadline loomed, Treeza looked like schoolgirl me in fifth year with no German homework to hand in and no good excuse.
Suddenly, she thought she’d found one. Early this week, big announcement, podium out, the whole bang shoot. Journalist and pundits scrambled like Spitfire pilots to comment and opine.
Treeza had just noticed the other bunch of people sitting opposite her lot. Brexit would affect everyone in the country, she said. Apparently, this was news to her. So, she thought she’d ask that Jezza bloke for a chat.
Bet that was cosy. Just the two of them. Must have looked like the worst ever episode of First Dates. Ah, Treeza, I fear there is no help here. As you stoop more and more with the weight of it all, Jezza seems to be getting paler and paler. His people are getting mutinous, too. The one thing you both have in common is that pain in your back. It’s where the knives go in.
Every ten minutes or so, there are rumours of a leadership challenge. Wouldn’t surprise me if she swung round and said, fine. Let’s arm wrestle for it.
Who wants the job now anyway? It’s like being promoted to manager of a burning fireworks factory.
People say it could be Gove, that sleekit wee man who looks like he’s just swallowed the sixpence from the clootie dumpling.
He’s like that middle manager who turns up to the office Christmas party in a suit, drinks orange juice and tries to drag the regional manager off the karaoke to talk about new staff rotas.
A friend once mooted the idea that we should consider asking heads of state from other countries to the top job in Britain at times of national crises. No conflict of interest, fixed contract, get the job done, thanks and goodbye. Zero-hour Prime Minister. How Tory is that?
Now is the time to put that plan into action. No, not Trump. We’d be at war with Disneyland by lunchtime.
Let’s get Jacinda Ardern of New Zealand to pop over. Bet she’d be great.
No pilots Flybe? Then it’s time for Plan B – me
So, Flybe, turn us away from Gate 28 last week with some story about calling our names for our flight will you? You know what I’m thinking? There was no announcement, because there was no plane.
Flybe are cancelling flights because, they say, they don’t have enough pilots. There’s an industry-wide shortage of pilots. The pilots they do have are taking their own holidays, ungrateful wretches. Now, call me mad, but I rather thought that airlines could work out pretty much when they needed people in planes, because other people would have bought tickets to be in the planes. You need a staff rota, mate. Gove’s your man.
The solution is simple. How hard is it to fly a plane? It’s all computers and what not these days.
I figure a weekend should do it. I might even read the instructions. I conquered the satnav in the car in only two weeks. Tell you what, I’ll even buy my own pilot’s hat. Sign me up.