In a stunning display of maritime alarmism that will surely force the price of a G&T in Malaga up by at least four pence, the Royal Navy has declared that the European Union’s border shambles could strangle the British holiday routes. Yes, the very same routes that countless sun-starved Britons use to escape the grey drizzle of their homeland for the equally grey but slightly warmer drizzle of the Costa del Sol.
Admiral Sir Reginald Puffle-Whiff, speaking from the comfort of a Portsmouth portacabin that smells faintly of stale biscuits and despair, announced, “We have received intelligence that EU border controls may become ‘unacceptably congested’ during peak season. This means your two-week all-inclusive in Benidorm might involve an extra three hours of queueing in a fluorescent-lit hangar while a man in a hi-vis vest slowly loses his mind.”
Now, I do not know about you, but the prospect of being trapped in a queue with nothing but a duty-free Toblerone and the faint hope of a vaguely cold beer sounds like absolute hell. But let us not pretend this is a tragedy. This is a gift. A glorious, chaotic gift from the gods of bureaucratic incompetence.
Think about it. For years, we have been told that Brexit would bring back control, sovereignty, and the ability to sell bendy bananas to our hearts’ content. Instead, we have got the Royal Navy threatening to deploy missile destroyers to escort ferries through a Kafkassque checkpoint. It is the sort of absurdity that would make Franz Kafka say, “Bloody hell, lads, tone it down a bit.”
The Navy’s proposed solution? A “Maritime Resilience Cell,” which I can only assume is a euphemism for a bloke with a clipboard and a megaphone standing on the white cliffs of Dover yelling, “Form an orderly queue, you lot!” They have also suggested using naval vessels to “monitor traffic flows,” which is Navy-speak for staring at a radar screen and occasionally muttering, “Bleurgh, look at all those cars.”
But here is the real kicker. This crisis is entirely self-inflicted. We voted for this. We elected a government that seems to think that negotiating with the EU is like haggling for a carpet in Marrakech. You shout a lot, demand an unreasonable discount, then storm out, only to return two hours later because you really do need that rug. In this case, the rug is the ability to take a family of four to Lanzarote without needing a visa, a letter from the Queen, and a sworn affidavit that you will not attempt to steal any of the local paella secrets.
The irony is thick enough to spread on a crumpet. The Royal Navy, the very institution that once ruled the waves and defended the realm from Napoleon, Hitler, and the Spanish Armada, is now reduced to worrying about whether a family from Milton Keynes can get to Calais without their holiday being ruined by a paperwork shortage. God save the Queen, indeed.
And let us not forget the poor souls at the Foreign Office, who have been forced to issue a series of increasingly desperate travel advisories. The latest one reads, “British nationals are advised to carry sufficient snacks, a charged power bank, and a full bladder before attempting any EU border crossing.” I presume the next one will recommend carrying a packed lunch and a copy of War and Peace for the truly epic queues.
So, what is the solution? I say we embrace the chaos. Turn the queues into a national pastime. Set up deckchairs, sell overpriced hot dogs, and let the whole thing spiral into a glorious, televised spectacle. It will be like the Great British Bake Off but with more crying and fewer fondant fancies.
Alternatively, we could all just stay home. Visit Bognor Regis. It is not quite Benidorm, but at least the border control is just a weather-beaten man in a raincoat asking if you have any more of that rain you could spare.
