A Brexit thought has occurred. It dawned on me that our Members of Parliament are just like the contestants on The Apprentice. They are split into two teams with those applicants who failed the final cut sitting to one side, moping. The team members are inept, crass and don’t have a clue. They are lost in their own world of dreams where they imagine that what they do counts for something. They are leaders of men, in their own lunchtimes.
The brief for the Brexit Round is simple: Get Great Britain Out Of Europe. Because nobody else wanted to do it, Theresa is appointed project manager of Team Oblivion and she is tasked to whipping her team into line and getting the result that 52% of viewers asked for. The team are required to identify what Britain does best and find new ways to do less of it better.
It isn’t going to be an easy job. The team is up against a bunch of wine-swilling, garlic-breathed Johnny Foreigners who are determined not to buy what Theresa and the boys are selling. Some of the boys are reluctant to put themselves in the firing line, preferring to sit back and just look like they’re on it. One, David, keeps falling asleep.
At the end of the episode Theresa has taken the Europeans out for a slap-up meal and told them clearly and firmly that the way ahead is behind them and demands to know who had the extra portion of rice.
With a cry of ‘FUBAR!’ an English Lord storms out of the room and goes on Dragon’s Den instead where he can shout at more people differently.
If Only TV Reflected Real Life
Of course, it goes without saying that the Brexit reality is even more gob-smacking. It is hard to believe that grown adults, chosen from among the allegedly finest in the land, can make such an unutterable balls-up of what is, in effect, a business transaction.
Welcome then to The Apprentice Euro-party and it isn’t going well, folks. Toys are being thrown out of prams. Feet are being stamped. There’s a lot of name-calling and the demanding of money with menaces. An oily French chap who turned up out of the blue and didn’t bring a bottle thinks he already runs the disco. There’s a rather narked-looking plump German woman sidling up to other guests and whispering ‘Komm mit mir, Liebling’ salaciously into their ears.
Some of the other guests are starting to think that the party is just a bit crap and are wondering if they should make their excuses and leave early before the booze runs out and the fighting starts. Meanwhile a bloke who looks a bit like Catweazle is running about in the garden blowing on the smouldering embers of the bonfire of dissent trying to get the blaze going again.
The Party’s Over
Here in the real world with its diesel fumes, a national debt like a running sore and a generally precarious perplexed population, business and industry are rightfully asking what the hell is going on. The people who run industry must be wondering on which side of the English Channel to jump.
We have enjoyed of late a pretty healthy car industry for example. Many thousands of jobs depend on it. The Euro-party is falling apart and it is the organisers who are at fault. Ask the 400 people at the Vauxhall Ellesmere Port facility who are about to lose their jobs who they blame. The party organisers, that’s who. Geoff Maxted