The momentum has finally switched to Remain – Theresa May has engineered a political sea change

As Brexit rumbles on, we should be grateful we’re not in the 16th century. Imagine living back then, when leaders of parliament had to beg to a group of entitled Etonian idiots led by a deranged character in a monocle, to be allowed to carry on for a while.

But at least feudal rulers were efficient. The rule in the current government is everyone has to resolutely support the opposite of what they resolutely supported yesterday morning.

So European Research Group man Steve Baker insisted he wanted parliament to be sovereign, but this week he amended that slightly, to saying he wanted to “bulldoze parliament into the river”, presumably because he belongs to some sort of religious cult that believes an object is given mighty sovereign powers when it’s a pile of rubble in a river.

It might be best to warn the Queen, because if he meets her Majesty, he’ll say “you are indeed a worthy sovereign” and arrange for a JCB to dump her in the river.

Boris Johnson declared the government’s deal was a “suicide vest” that “put Britain in a straitjacket” and cried two days ago it must be rejected so we can “set the people free”, like Moses. But now he feels he should support it, which could give the impression, if you were really cynical, that Boris isn’t entirely principled and supports whatever he feels might increase his chances of becoming leader.

If a poll of Conservative members showed a majority of them were druids, Boris would be straight down to Stonehenge to dance naked for the seasons, and his column in the Telegraph would go “Um do-da um um um all hail the sun spirit um om um.”

In any case, he might be quite keen on straitjackets, as they remind him warmly of rituals at Eton, along with a length of scaffold pipe and a ferret.

Jacob Rees-Mogg himself insisted the deal would make Britain a slave state, but now might support it, and every day ministers commend motions and then immediately vote against them, or senior politicians declare: “This deal is by some considerable measure far worse than being rogered up the jacksie by an aardvark”, then the next day support it, because “the important thing is the prime minister has agreed to read out the section on the backstop in an Irish accent”.

Maybe they have a condition, called “Statement Bull**** Reverse Syndrome”. Early symptoms include telling someone, “I really fancy a chocolate Magnum” while on holiday, then someone buys them a chocolate Magnum so they scream this is a betrayal of frozen goods and squash it into a bin surrounded by wasps, then announce they will lick it up if the DUP say they should.

The next stage will be for ministers to change their mind within the same sentence, bellowing: “It is imperative we support the deal, to carry out the wishes of the 17.4 million who voted Leave, the ignorant tosspots, for they are the great British people, they’re worse than Isis, who I thoroughly respect.”

The prime minister has set a high standard for this novel style of argument, insisting that if her MPs think she’s done a decent job, they should show they respect this by sacking her, but if they think she’s been useless they should keep her on.

She then managed to dismiss the idea of MPs trying to find a scheme they could agree on, saying: “I can’t come up with a plan, so no one else should be allowed a go.”

By this method Theresa May could be an Olympic pole vault champion who fails 375 times to clear a height of three inches, then passes a rule that no one else can try and takes the gold.

This means her strategy is starting to become clear at last. She’s already managed to become the worst prime minister ever, but like a true champion she’s found new goals and now she’s trying to become the worst person ever.

She faces stiff competition even within her own ranks, because the most hardline Brexit supporters in the government have called themselves the Grand Wizards, the same name as the rulers of the Ku Klux Klan. There is no level of irony beyond these people; next week they’ll decide that’s a daft name, and declare they’ve given themselves a title that emphasises their wish to no longer be associated with Germany, and have called themselves the Gestapo.

Perhaps their problem is the campaign to leave Europe has been driven for 20 years by a group that believes in Britain’s mystical superiority, who imagined the withdrawal agreement would go “let feeble Europe tremble before the majesty of Britain’s bendy bananas, for our sperm glistens with the glory of Britannia”, and Donald Tusk would sign it on his knees, begging for our mercy.

So characters such as Nigel Farage and David Davis promised a heroic departure, with no turmoil, and instead they have this reality, which they don’t accept so they insist they should be able to vote for a different reality.

But the momentum is against them, they see the five million-strong petition, and the marches, whereas they can barely manage to mobilise half a dozen people for a Yarmouth Evening of Rummy Against Brussels. So now they’re squabbling among themselves about who should vote for which compromise and who betrayed who.

May could have told them to sod off. But thankfully she didn’t, so we can enjoy this perpetual chaos, a nightly soap opera that will soon replace Eastenders, with characters no one likes shouting: “I heard Johnson’s backed a deal in an indicative vote, the slaaag,” and flushing each other’s heads down the toilet for our entertainment.