The oily elite swarmed over her like a wolf pack
OFFICIALLY, it was all smiles in Brussels when Theresa May arrived to try to convince other European leaders into granting Britain a Brexit extension.
Unofficially? The poor woman’s stomach will have been churning like a washing machine set to heavy load.
Mrs May had already been warned by EU head honcho Donald Tusk that any extension would be dependent on her somehow strong-arming MPs into voting next week for the Brexit deal agreed by her and the other 27 EU countries.
However, those would be the same MPs who’ve defiantly rejected it twice by whopping three-figure margins. And the same MPs who Mrs May has infuriated by rolling a live grenade into the Strangers’ bar as
she told the nation in a live TV broadcast on Wednesday night that this entire hotchpotch was all their fault. As it eventually transpired she had until at least April 12 – just three weeks’ time – on what to do next. ‘Garçon, Le Gaviscon s’il vous
plaît!’ The PM had rolled up at the European Commission shortly after lunch, emerging from one of those blacked-out Mercedes which rap stars stride out of at awards shows swigging fancy hooch. She sported a pencil-thin suit, snappy heels and helmet hair.
Snaking up the spirally red carpet, she darted towards the waiting Press pack, beginning from where she’d left off the previous evening in that live address. ‘What is important is that Parliament delivers on the result of the referendum.
‘And that we deliver Brexit for the British people,’ she croaked, her voice huskier than a Marlene Dietrich melody. Behind, her bag-carriers – bearded Tim Barrow and pot-bellied ‘Tricky’ Jackson – chuntered merrily like scenery extras on a film set. Was she prepared to leave the EU without a deal? To which she began: ‘What is important is that Parliament…’ No, she never gives much away, does Mrs May.
Then came kissy-kissy time with those other EU leaders she needed to schmooze for her extension. Ugh!
This is the bit, I’m advised, the PM struggles with at these summits. She has no small talk. Casual chat just ain’t her thing. There they all were, the
soi-disant Euro elite, swarming around our PM like wolves circling a lamb.
Belgian PM Charles Michel, Brylcreemed Austrian Chancellor Sebastian Kurz, Luxembourgeois PM Xavier Bettel in a
très raffiné Nehru-collared smoking jacket.
It was all oily compliments and fake grins. Outside, Jean-Claude Juncker played the
doddery fool with journalists. Or perhaps he didn’t need to try. Think Norman Wisdom after a few sherries. Mrs May then disappeared for talks with her hosts.
PERHAPS I read too much into these things but I couldn’t help think she bore the slight heregoes-nuthin’ air of a desperado who was about to borrow a large sum from a loan shark without the first idea how they were going to pay it back. For hours and hours the talks went on. We were told to expect a puff of white smoke around 6.30pm. This proved wildly optimistic. Why the hold-up? The rumour was that Mrs May was being ‘tight-lipped’ and ‘evasive’. Well, plus ça change, mes amis.
Hours ticked by. By 8pm, the Eurocrats announced discussions would continue over dinner. Groan. What a way to spoil a decent scoff. On the menu: Green lentil terrine with langoustine and roast duckling à l’orange with parsnip mousseline and glazed carrots.
Yum. Never let it be said they don’t know how to board the EU gravy train.
Mrs May is not much of a tippler but I suspect after an afternoon’s ‘bartering’ with these Eurotrash snoots, a few glugs of the excellent vino I am told was being uncorked must have seemed awfully tempting.