BARKING MAD!

MPs shedding weight and bursting into tears, civil servants needing counselling and talking to an imaginary online pooch called DogBot. They’ve all gone . . .

TRIED the Atkins, the Paleo, the 5:2, the Bulletproof Coffee, the Dukan, the SlimFast, the South Beach, the grapefruit diet, all without success? Never mind, help is at hand. It’s time to go on the Brexit Diet. Conservative MP Huw Merriman (who he?) told the BBC he has lost four inches off his waist due to the stress he’s suffered agonising over Britain leaving the EU.

He claims to have dropped from a 34in to ‘ under a 30’ and has started seeing a counsellor to deal with the ‘mental health issues’ caused by Brexit.

I once invented the C-plan diet, a variation on the F-plan, the fibre-based regime which used to be popular in the Eighties.

You can eat and drink anything you like, provided it begins with a C. On day one, I stuck to celery, cottage cheese and cabbage.

Day two was corn- on- the- cob and cucumber, washed down with carrot juice.

That got a bit monotonous, so I graduated to Chablis, Carlsberg Special Brew, claret, cognac, chicken tikka massala and crisps (but only cheese and onion). I lost . . . three days! Merriman isn’t the only MP worrying himself into a smaller pair of Levi’s. Ex-minister Robert Halfon (me, neither) says: ‘It feels as if the Commons is having a collective breakdown, a cross between Lord Of The Flies and One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. The Brexit madness has affected us all.’

Nick Boles flounced out of the Tory Party in tears because Parliament rejected his Norway option, which I believe involves eating nothing but raw fish and reindeer.

Some MPs are distressed because the Easter recess has been cancelled, so they’ll miss out on their Cadbury’s Creme Eggs (a tried-and-tested superfood allowed on the C-plan diet).

One female MP (it doesn’t matter which one, they’re all mad) claims she is frightened to go to the supermarket because everyone is staring at her. Frankly, I doubt anyone would have the faintest idea who she was. But at least it means she can draw attention to herself, which is the whole point of the exercise.

I told you months ago that the political class, far from stressing out, were loving every minute of the Brexit psychodrama. It’s their Wimbledon, their Six Nations, their World Cup.

Now they even get to play the victim card, clambering on the currently fashionable ‘ mental health issues’ bandwagon.

The Deputy Speaker, Lindsay Hoyle, has written to all MPs urging them to seek help from a 24-hour counselling hotline. How long before Tony Soprano’s shrink, Dr Jennifer Melfi, is drafted in to Westminster?

ALL of this insanity is self-inflicted. They were given a simple task: to get us out of the EU. Instead they decided to make it as complicated as possible.

In other words, to make it all about them. They did the opposite of that old insurance company advert and turned a drama into a crisis. Now, we’re expected to feel sorry for them because they are under so much pressure they’re having to call the Samaritans — in between talking to Sky News on College Green every five minutes.

It’s not just MPs, either. Civil servants are feeling the strain, too. The Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (Defra) has blown £40,000 on counselling services for staff.

Counsellors have been inundated with requests for support from Defra employees working on preparations for ‘no deal’.

An outfit called Charity For Civil Servants is offering a ‘ Brexit well-being toolkit’.

Sounds like something you buy

at B&Q. But if you think that’s bonkers, wait until you hear about the latest Government initiative, which really takes the Bonio.

Whitehall has set up a ‘virtual online hound’, called DogBot, to help civil servants suffering from Brexit-induced anxiety and stress.

There’s another one of those sentences I never thought I’d read, let alone write. Civil servants are being encouraged to contact a pretend dog, on the internet, as — and I quote — ‘an approachable first step for people who think they may need more professional help’. First step?

Anyone who thinks pouring out their troubles to a virtual dog is a way to behave is already some distance beyond needing professional help. They belong in a room with rubber walls, in a suit which does up at the back, and with no access to sharp objects.

Can you imagine the committee meeting which came up with that idea?

‘OK, so we’ve agreed to give the EU £39 billion, we’re staying in the customs union. Is there any other business before we adjourn to the Red Lion?’

‘ Yes, Sir Humphrey. Miss Goodbody in HR tells me the staff have been complaining that they’re a bit stressed out over Brexit.’

‘ Didn’t I read that some universities have been hiring dogs to help students cope with the stress of exams?’

‘That’s right. They’re encouraged to stroke them to relieve the pressure.’

‘Why don’t we bring in a few labradoodles? When the going gets tough, staff can pet them.’

‘I’m not sure elf’n’safety would agree to that. Look at the mess Blunkett’s dog used to make.’

‘I’ve got it. Let’s set up a virtual dog on the internet. Then staff can go online and talk to it 24/7. We’ll call it DogBot.’ ‘Brilliant!’ So far, DogBot’s had more than 4,000 conversations with civil servants. You couldn’t make it up.

Maybe that’s where Theresa May’s getting advice on her negotiating strategy. It might explain why she’s made a complete dog’s breakfast of Brexit.

Perhaps DogBot is her constant companion, like James Stewart’s imaginary rabbit in Harvey.

Frankly, nothing would surprise me any more. Who knew when we voted Leave that three years on it would end up with MPs dropping two dress sizes and civil servants talking to a pretend dog on the internet?

Not just mad, but completely barking.