From a distance I thought it might be amusing. My Brexit Christmas: the story of how I, a staunch Remainer, battled my way through a festive visit from my Leave-voting nearest and dearest. Exploiting the genre of scripted reality, there’d be laughs a-plenty as each of us attempted to bridge that classic divide (recurring catchphrase: “just don’t mention the Brussels sprouts!”).
In-between opening presents (“I’d have got you something, only I decided to set fire to £50 billion for no reason”) and raising a toast to the our future (“to misery, which is entirely the fault of all the people who predicted it!”), I’d cut to the camera to offer some wry commentary on the proceedings (“so THIS is what’s meant by taking back control!” *eyebrow raise*).
Unfortunately, the whole idea stopped feeling fun somewhere between a madcap plan to get the children to creep into bedrooms posing as the ghosts of Brexit past, present and future, and visions of a grand finale, in which everyone put their differences aside and re-enacted the Christmas truce (we, too, can play football in the No Man’s Land between EU membership and Ukiptopia!).