Brexfix.

You know what a divorce is like. You have at best half of what you had before, conveniently forgetting it never was all yours in the first place, and lets face it no one is exactly feeling generous when it’s going down. Then there’s those soliciting people to pay, what are they called? Ah yes solicitors; what was I thinking. And alimony, which is something like paying for the right not to drive your own car. And then there’s friends. These osmotically divide into yours and hers. If as usually happens they are all her family and friends you’re left with Jim your drinking partner and Simon who you’ve never really liked anyway. And finally from experience the one who wanted the divorce in the first place often comes off worst. If the reason this unhappy turn of events was because you didn’t like the in-laws overstaying their welcome, even though they were terribly useful around the house, then you have Brexit in a nutshell. We will have to pay nearly £1,000 per man, woman and child in alimony, god knows what in legal fees, Europe will be mean to us and all our old friends are more friends with Europe than us. Theresa May is reduced to hold hands with Trump, drinking with Turkey’s Recep Erdoğan, and is probably considering a middle-aged boys fun weekend in Prague with Kim Jong-un. We will all go into a morose decline eating takeaways and watching re-runs of Top Gear bleating, “eeh they could never replace Jeremy Clarkson” and spending our weekends, port in hand, sobbing over the condition of our 1973 Vauxhall Victor, still unable to admit “they don’t make ‘em like that nowadays” because they were shit in the first place. And, though we’d never admit it, be thinking Aunty Joan was, well preferable to Brenda in many ways and made the most amazing meat and potato pies. If only we could Fexit.