In a move that has shaken the dregs of the diplomatic community, the Foreign Office has summoned EU envoys for a stern talking-to regarding the border system chaos that is threatening to turn British holidaymakers into weeping supplicants at the gates of Continental paradise. The system, a glitch-ridden monument to bureaucratic hubris, has left thousands of sun-seekers stranded in purgatorial queues, their dreams of sangria and overpriced ice cream withering under the harsh glare of automated passport gates that seem to have been programmed by a committee of lobotomised gerbils.
Boris’s boys and girls, no doubt fuelled by the finest canteen gin, have finally bestirred themselves from their leather-bound torpor to issue a formal complaint. The envoys, looking for all the world like startled poodles caught in a sudden downpour, were reportedly read the Riot Act over lukewarm Earl Grey. “This is unacceptable,” spluttered a junior minister, his tie askew and his patience in tatters. “Our people are not laboratory rats for your digital dystopia.”
The chaos stems from the EU’s new Entry/Exit System (EES), a marvel of overcomplicated nothingness that requires British travellers to submit to biometric checks worthy of a Bond villain’s lair. The system, which was supposed to streamline travel, has instead created bottlenecks of biblical proportions, turning airports into scenes of quiet desperation usually reserved for the last days of a besieged city. Holidaymakers have been reduced to sleeping on their own luggage, eating overpriced sandwiches, and developing a profound hatred for the concept of a united Europe.
Meanwhile, the government’s response has been a masterpiece of studied indifference. Whitehall mandarins, their faces a mask of bureaucratic calm, have assured us that everything is under control, even as the nation’s collective tan fades in the departure lounge. “We are in close contact with our European partners,” droned a spokesperson, his voice a monotone of institutional assurance. “These are technical teething problems.” Teething problems, indeed. One expects the next communication to announce that the rabid wolf has merely a slight cold.
But fear not, for the Foreign Office has now summoned the envoys. A stern note has been delivered, possibly written on vellum with a quill dipped in reproachful ink. The envoys have been told, in no uncertain terms, to sort out their technological shambles before the British public descends into a full-blown revolt. One can only imagine the scene: the diplomats, their faces frozen in diplomatic smiles, being harangued by a red-faced functionary who has clearly missed his lunchtime G&T.
The irony, of course, is thick enough to spread on a digestive biscuit. This is a government that spent years banging on about taking back control, only to find itself powerless before a computer system designed by people who have never experienced the simple joy of a stress-free holiday. The EU, for its part, has responded with the kind of serene indifference that only a multinational bureaucracy can muster. “We are sorry for any inconvenience,” they said, which is EU-speak for “we will do absolutely nothing.”
So, my fellow countrymen, prepare for a summer of rage. Pack your patience, a good book, and perhaps a hip flask. Because the only thing that will get you through the border chaos is a stiff drink and the knowledge that, somewhere in a grand office in Whitehall, a civil servant is shouting at a foreign diplomat about the precise definition of a queue. And that, dear reader, is the kind of spectacle that makes the gin taste even sweeter.
