British politics is a mess.

We have voted to leave the EU. David Cameron has resigned. Boris Johnson has vanished. The Labour party are wrestling on the floor. The Lib Dems are sitting quietly in the corner. Meanwhile, Nicola Sturgeon is performing the world’s longest eye-roll.

Yes, British politics is a hilarious mess. How can I describe it to you?

It is a tangled ball of cat hair, elastic bands and disappointment. It is Wayne Rooney’s first touch. It is a burgeoning floordrobe. The rotting potato in the cupboard that no-one will take responsibility for. It is a drunk man waking up just outside Cardiff city centre in an abandoned shopping trolley wearing nothing but an Elvis wig and a crude dress fashioned out of tin foil.

British politics is terrifying. It is the dancefloor in Jesters. It is an angry toddler demanding more candy floss. Loud, sticky and irrational.

British politics is dense and confusing. Like a quantum physics textbook. Like Michael Gove’s continued employment. Like the inside of Stephen Fry’s mind. Like the EU’s cabbage laws. Like the blogs debunking the myths surrounding the EU’s cabbage laws.

British politics is best off ignored. Like a quantum physics textbook. Like Piers Morgan, or Katie Hopkins’ opinions. And the voice that tells you you’re not too old to pull off that denim jacket.

British politics is profoundly irritating. It is your younger brother. It is the smile on Cristiano Ronaldo’s face. Sickening and eminently punchable. It is Kevin Bacon. You had no strong feelings about it until it started to appear in between programmes on ITV.

British politics is white noise. It is Michael Owen’s co-commentary. The chords to Meghan Trainor’s Me Too. It is Joe Hart singing the national anthem. It is both too loud and distinctly unintelligible. It is this blog post. It is a Youtube comment section. It is thousands of voices crying out in terror, before being suddenly silenced.

British politics is weak and feeble. It is Joe Hart’s left wrist. A poorly received pun. It is tumbleweed.

It is a bitter disappointment. It is the Lynx Africa that your Auntie Margaret gave you two Christmases ago. It is the underside of Donald Trump’s toupee, smothered in chocolate and served on pancake day in the Corbyn household. It is Hayden Christensen. It is Jar Jar Binks. It is the final series of How I Met Your Mother.

British politics is both Gareth Bale’s magnificent left foot and his horribly ill-advised haircut. It is a treasure and a trifle. It is ridiculous and sublime. It is Twitter. It is The Simpsons Season 4. It is The Simpsons Season 24.

It is a broad Yorkshire drawl in a sea of sophisticated French accents. A battered mars bar on a plate of caviar. It is a man out of time. It is Marty McFly. It is cryogenics.

British politics is not long for this world. It is your favourite Game of Thrones character. It is an open packet of Salt and Vinegar Pringles. It is a small man wearing a full Manchester United kit, reading the Sun on a bench in the centre of Liverpool.

It is nonsensical. It is utterly baffling. It is perfectly cromulent. It is umbugnacious and caterwellvian. It has taken leave of its senses. It has waved goodbye to reality. It is operating on a different plane of existence. It is quantum physics. It is Donald Trump. It is this blog post.

British politics is a mess.