After sobering discussions with leading car manufacturers – who pointed out that a hard Brexit could lead to a Britain without cars – and with deadlines looming at the speed of a Mercedes on a German autobahn, Mrs May realised something had to be done. So with a flair born out of running through fields of wheat, she produced a great big turd.

She was pleased with her turd, and invited her whole cabinet to Chequers so they could admire it.

Turd-admiring was not optional, and members of her cabinet were informed that should they find themselves unable to turn into turd-admirers, ministerial cars would not be available to take them away, and it was a very long walk to the nearest bus stop.

Boris thought that the turd was in need of a good polish, but then decided that turd-polishing was a mugwump’s game and legged it.

But not until his ministerial car had carried him safely back to Westminster.

The Brexiteers were up in arms about the turd – said they were being forced to accept a car with all four wheels on and a serviceable engine, when they had spent two years campaigning for a car with no wheels, and an engine that had been taken out and put back in upside down and back to front.

No, no one knows why – there has been speculation about trade deals with Mars and Uranus and the possibility of making gazillions, but everyone knows that Mars already has a trade deal with the EU, and Uranus is busy building a wall.

There are rumours that sheer stupidity may be involved.

People also don’t understand why it has taken the government so long to get their act together, but if the only choice on the menu is cat turd or dog turd, it is hard to make up your mind.

Mrs May, with a cleverness born out of running through fields of wheat, thought she could persuade her cabinet that what she was offering only looked like dog turd, and if they would just buck up they would find it tasted really quite – well, quite like dog turd as a matter of fact, but the only other option was to offer the people a second vote, which she absolutely would not do. Because she said so. Because she did. Look –

The Will of the British People must be respected.

The Pro-Remain ministers were not keen on turd for Brexit, but they were relieved at the prospect of still having a car that actually went – not very far, and it wouldn’t get any say about direction or speed, but it would be better than no car at all.

This is not a view shared by the Brexiteers: why have a car when you could have no car? And while you’re at it, no car industry. Who needs an economy when you have sovereignty?

The Remainers are doing their best to ignore such views, and to forget that they are choosing this half-arsed car in exchange for the first-rate one they already have: one that goes freely wherever it wants, can park itself in a garage in any one of 27  countries, and has an important role in telling those countries what kind of garages they should have.

And there will be a lot of Brexit voters upset about not getting the full-white-English they were promised, but they can take comfort that the car they are getting is remarkably similar to the ones we used to make forty years ago before we joined the EU. So all will not have been lost in vain.

Although the all that is lost will be a very big all.

But not everyone is filled with gloom about it: a leading diet guru, inspired by the success of You Are What You Eat, has produced a book entitled ‘Eat What You Are: Polish Your Turds for a Brighter Future. It’s selling like hot cakes.

The National Association for the Protection of Faeces, after being inundated with requests for information on correct usage and etiquette for turd-encounters, has put out the following statement: ‘Turds are not suitable for polishing. Furthermore, there is no connection between turds and proposed Brexit deals.’

It later emerged that people were just wanting to know what they should do if they happened upon Donald Trump during his visit, and assumed the NAPF would be the people to know.

And what next? Will we get to keep the car or not?

Well, having got the agreement at Chequers that her turd was a goer, as soon as she waved it about on dry land where there’s a bus on every corner, Westminster was alive with the sound of slamming doors and ministerial car keys hurled to the ground; Jacob Rees-Mogg started fermenting rebellion with his nanny while she fed him rice pudding – and then the Remainers started kicking off, but they referred to it as a fudge, because they are a politer, more reasonable lot.

Trump immediately jumped on it with both feet, but when the stink hit the fan, he cried ‘Fake News’, and then pushed the Queen over.

No, of course he didn’t. I made that up.

She ducked.

And of course the all important question: will the other 27 countries agree to Mrs May’s turd and conditions.

The smart money is on a pony and trap.

Or another referendum.