David Davis strode to the centre of the big tent in Brussels today in big floppy shoes and oversized trousers to announce a breakthrough for British and international business.
”We have fudge, fudge, fudge to give away!” he exalted the assembled crowd, twirling and holding up a tray just loaded with fudge.
He then tripped, back flipped and landed with his face in the fudge.
As he staggered and stumbled, playing the part of someone with fudge in their eyes, ringmaster Barnier circled energetically with a tiger on a leash.
The tiger was wearing a two tone tiger jacket with single market written on one flank and customs union on the other.
”I can see! Don’t worry about me!” Davis pretended to be calm, “It’s making me rather thirsty though. All this pretending I know where I am going!”
He stumbled about with his hands outstretched, as if feeling for a wall or feeling for a door.
”What are you looking for sir? Maybe I can help?” Ringmaster Barnier asked slowly and loudly.
”I’m looking for a deep and enduring, special and meaningful relationship,” Davis replied, but Barnier cut him off.
”I can be your guide.”
”You didn’t let me finish,” Davis barked, “I’m looking for a deep and enduring, special and meaningful relationship with an all expenses paid bar!”
Ha! Ha!
”Well I can help you with that too.”
Calmly Barnier lifted the tiger’s tail and placed it across one of Mr Davis’ open hands.
”Ah! A guide dog! I am saved!” David cried.
”This animal will lead you down the path, but don’t hold on for too long, or it will turn around and eat you.”
”I am not afraid! Even without the use of my eyes I can deal with a dog!”
The ringmaster doffed his top hat to the audience, who ooooed as Davis cheered his rescue.
”Take me to the nearest pub guide dog for am I parched! All this talking has me rather dizzy!”
Children in the audience, just little small and medium sized things, shouted warnings that Davis refused to hear as he followed the tiger from the rear.
Barnier circled by their side and kicked a can labelled “Irish Border” ahead of the path of Davis and the tiger.
The can spun from the kicking, beginning to fizz and smoke.
”What’s that smell?” Davis demanded of the crowd, “did someone throw a stink bomb at a blind man? You’re so very very cruel!”
A plant in the audience, not a cactus, but a middle aged woman with leather trousers and a big neck chain (put where she sits to better orchestrate the show), shouted out,
”Just kick that can man! Kick it as far as you can!”
Davis with his big shoes flailed around.
”What can? I can’t find it?”
He carried on.
The tiger looked tenser and tenser, as one by one the audience began to give up on the show and drift for the door.
Nissan. Airbus. Fisheries. Soft fruit producers. Regulatory agencies for all manner of things. Service sector jobs. The list was rather long.
And as they exited they walked passed an old man on a tricycle pedalling slowly around the perimeter of the big tent, holding a sign saying Jobs First Brexit, and looking for a way to get in.
”Don’t leave yet!” he pleaded, “me and my crew are up next.”
“I’m sorry old chap,” they all told him the same, “this Global Britain circus has already gone on for far too long.”