I’m getting the heebie jeebies about Brexit

I’m getting the heebie jeebies about Brexit. I know the Government and the Eurocrats are telling me they ‘got this’, but I’m getting that Eastenders feeling.

Nearly every episode of Eastenders ends the same way. One character thinks that, finally, things are about to work out ok.

They confide their hopes to a loved-one. And then the loved-one betrays them, maybe has an affair with the character’s mother, or plants a bomb in a JCB.

Then, the theme tune sounds: DUNH DUNH DUNH DO-DO DO DO DO DI DOOOOO.

Well, I’m getting that feeling now.

The more the good-haired Europeans, with their little pocket books and nice trousers and golfing-tans and urbane wit, take the piss out of tuna-chinned Tories, and the more they reassure Ireland we have their full support, the more heebie my jeebies get.

No matter how good Europe has been to us, with all the farm subsidies to knock ditches and kill butterflies, and the inner-relief roads, there have still been times when they have let us down.

The Pope let the English in — it was an English pope, but there must have been corrupt Italian cardinals advising him.

The Spanish, at the Battle of Kinsale, could have tried harder. The French, in 1798, weren’t at the races at all, except in Castlebar.

Maybe this is different. The EU is greater than the sum of its parts. But, still, the Eastenders theme plays in my mind.

It played the night of the count of the last British general election.

Do you remember when the Tories were getting a slapping and we — with our simplistic view of politics in other countries — thought that to be great gas altogether? Labour were surging and, shur, aren’t they the good guys?

Tony Blair — before he invaded Iraq on a lie — wasn’t he fairly sound? Labour?

Oh, we were so innocent. They turned out to be just like the Tories, in terms of competence, but maybe with less inherited wealth.

Then, as Tory seats fell, we were all metaphorically sinking the pints in the Old Vic when the door was thrown open and someone shouted, “HAVE A LAVLY TIME, ARE WE? WELL, MIND IF WE JOIN THE PARTY?”

It was the DUP.

So that’s why I’m picturing an Eastenders scene, where Simon Coveney is in a tender clinch with Jean Claude Juncker and saying, ‘I just wanna fank you. We gonna be a proppa faamly naow.’

And Jean Claude Junker starts to say, ‘well, the fing is, doll …’ and Jacob Rees-Mogg appears at the door in sterling-sign underpants and a silk robe. DUNH DUNH DUNH DO-DO.

I just can’t help worrying we’ll be ever so gently ushered down the Swannee by our smooth-skinned European friends. That’s why we need to do that other soap-opera scene: run off with the money.

Before we get to the Jacob Rees-Mogg episode, Ireland needs to be up in its room, packing the way they pack in soap operas: throwing things into a bag in a mad rush and then pausing for ages over a photograph, before finally reefing every bit of spare cash we can get out of the EU.

That’s the Apple money, the €15bn or so we have to borrow and destroy to pay off the Anglo loan (I’m told the Anglo Money is sort of meaningless, because of inflation and that national debts go on forever, but THIS IS A SOAP OPERA, POINDEXTER).

The North comes into our room, asking what we are up to and guesses and says, “You were gonna abandon me again, leave me, WIV ’IM?!

I hope I’m wrong about the EU. Maybe they’ll hold firm, because it’s in their interests more than ours to do so.

Either way, I’m not watching any more EastEnders. My jeebies can’t take any more.

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