Standing between two Brussels grand-fromages, Sir Keir Starmer could have been an escapee returned to the gaolers.
To make it even more galling, the scene was on supposedly sovereign soil. The Brussels big shots had swaggered into London and nabbed their man.
Ursula von der Leyen, sparkling with joy, affectionately referred to him as ‘deer Keer’ as she widened her tight little jaw, reminiscent of a cat’s. A jaw perfect for catching unsuspecting warblers.
On the other side of Sir Keir stood a sturdy Portuguese socialist, Antonio Costa, who seemed to be the president of the European Council. One positive outcome of Brexit was that we no longer had to concern ourselves with knowing the identities of such Eurocrats. However, now Labour has plunged us back into the chaotic political scene.
They pulled up in an Audi and were greeted at the entrance of Lancaster House by Sir Keir, standing alone on a stretch of red carpet. The elegant honey-colored exterior of the building was concealed by somber signs declaring ‘UK-EU Summit 2025′. These summits are now scheduled to take place annually, leading to more funds being allocated to satisfy politicians’ egos and more missteps into pitfalls.
‘Summit’ was a glorified noun for an hour’s meeting followed by a press conference, then lunch aboard the frigate Sutherland, moored in the Pool of London. The Royal Navy once fired broadsides when foreign marauders invaded our waters. Now ward-room matelots were waiting on them, silver-service. ‘Who’s having the fish?’ The Brussels duo: ‘We are.’ Press photographers were allowed to snap the main players at the start of their meeting.
David Lammy rubbed his thumbs together, looking ecstatic. Nick Thomas-Symonds, minister i/c surrender agreements, was given a rare invitation to sit at the top table. He spent the time nodding. Mr Lammy, on arrival outside, had been accompanied by his food-taster (and ministerial colleague) Stephen Doughty. You can imagine a tuba’s parp with each stride Brother Doughty takes.
At the start of the press conference Sir Keir invited Senhor Costa to speak. This was a decision – one of many, perhaps – that he would come to rue. ‘For us ees great pleasure to be ear,’ began o presidente. ‘We are ear not to talk about our shelled values.’ And to talk about them at length. Minutes passed. The room stilled, as if for a siesta.
Lunch was aboard the frigate Sutherland, moored in the Pool of London. The Royal Navy once fired broadsides when foreign marauders invaded our waters. Now ward-room matelots were waiting on them, silver-service.
Sir Keir was loving it. ur PM licked his lips and blinked with pride. He did that Bill Nighy thing of pursing his mouth.
Ursula von der Leyen, twinkly in her triumph, kept calling him ‘deer Keer’ and widened her taut little jaw. It is the jaw of a cat.Â
European Council President Antonio Costa, British Prime Minister Keir Starmer and European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen arrive for a visit aboard the British Royal Navy’s HMS Sutherland
But Sir Keir was loving it. As old Costa Living droned on about having felt ‘a new positive energy’ from Sir Keir at some meeting in February, our PM licked his lips and blinked with pride. He did that Bill Nighy thing of pursing his mouth. What a dork he looked. He even tilted a few degrees towards the Portuguese Man O’Bore, but maybe he was just finding it hard to stay awake as were the rest of the room.
‘We both believe in free trade,’ continued Costa Lot. This was debatable, for it was gratuitous EU bureaucratic tangles on free trade that blackmailed Sir Keir into his capitulation. ‘Your leadership has been instrumental,’ added Portugal’s finest. This, at least, was true. No one else but the nasal knight would have swallowed such a bad prawn as this deal.
Frau von der Leyen, palpably relieved when Costa finally shut up, began by saying ‘my deer Keer, it is a success – the excellent result we have!’ She was finding it hard to disguise her glee and disbelief at London’s cave-in. Sir Keir bit on the inside of his right cheek and hopped from one sole to the other. Jittery in front of his new boss? When he reached inside his jacket to retrieve a slip of paper he made his microphone crunch.
When it was his turn to speak he claimed ‘Britain is back on the world stage’. Britain has been stuffed back behind bars, more like, here in the person of its air pocket of a premier. Not that Sir Keir himself ever escaped. He was arguably on the EU’s side all along. The returned captive in his country. Freedom’s frolic is done. Lock the doors. Clank.
