Another day, another committee appearance for David Davis. This time it was the Lords EU select committee. The longer the EU negotiations go on, the more closely the Brexit secretary resembles a slightly desperate secondhand car dealer.

You want a car with low mileage? He’s got just the thing. Well, maybe not that low a mileage, but a very reliable little runner. And in great nick – apart from the dents.

Yes, he had told the Commons Brexit select committee that we could be negotiating until the last minute – and probably beyond – but he fully expected to get everything sorted within the next year.

Basically, it was the easiest deal ever. You just had to be positive. Even if that meant the EU would get the best of the deal. Whoops, forget he said that.

Where was he? Ah, yes. There was no reason to worry about ending up with no deal because he wasn’t planning on ending up with one. So their lordships shouldn’t worry their pretty little heads about such hypotheticals.

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Yes, it was possible there wouldn’t be any free trade deals in place, but there would still be a couple of daily flights landing at Biggin Hill.

“I see,” said Lady Neville-Rolfe, doubtfully. “So, can you tell us a bit more about the deep and special partnership you want with the EU?”

Davis nodded eagerly. It would be a relationship that was deeper and more special than the one we currently had.

Davis’s breezy, panglossian and frequently contradictory delivery was rather at odds with Alistair Darling’s testimony to the same committee just an hour earlier.

Time has been kind to the former chancellor. During the financial crisis, he looked like a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Dealing with both Gordon Brown and Northern Rock can do that to a man. But now he comes across as a Leonard Cohen tribute act singing his songs of love and death. Death, mostly.

Could he think of anything positive that had come out of the prime minister’s Florence speech? The Man with the Golden Voice wasn’t going to miss an intro like that.

Not really, he purred. There had been no point in Theresa May whispering sweet nothings while her cabinet was busy squabbling. The EU countries weren’t stupid. They read the British press and knew the government was in chaos.

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The whole thing was basically a car crash. There was only one grownup in the cabinet – Philip Hammond – and nobody was really listening to him. We were going around blaming the EU negotiators for stalling the talks when it was our lack of clarity that was at fault.

We had said what we didn’t want, but we were hopelessly vague on what we did want. No one could agree anything unless we knew where we were going.

Their lordships didn’t bat an eyelid at this. Rather, it appeared to confirm their own suspicions. So what did he suggest?

The Man with the Golden Voice smiled knowingly. He didn’t really have anything to suggest. He would never have agreed to the sequencing of the negotiations in the first place.

How could you possibly agree to resolving the Irish border, EU citizens’ rights and the financial commitments when you didn’t know what kind of future relationship you wanted? You’d have to be mad to do something like that. Or be David Davis.

The Man with the Golden Voice was relaxing into his set. The gloomier the song, the happier he seemed to be. There was no hope of getting any kind of deal in two years. More like four or five at best, and even that would be on a wing and a prayer.

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People had no idea what crashing out with no deal and trading on World Trade Organisation terms would be like, and the government was currently basing some of its contingency planning on technology that hadn’t even been invented yet.

“Every time I go abroad, people ask me why we are doing this to ourselves,” said Laughing Lenny. And he didn’t really have an answer.

There was always the possibility that pigs might fly, but that was about it. The prime minister might have a personality change and learn to start schmoozing Angela Merkel and the other EU leaders. The cabinet might stop fighting like rats in a sack.

Lady Kennedy was so depressed she was willing to clutch at straws. Was there any chance we could say we had left the EU, but actually leave everything pretty much the same as it was?

The Man with the Golden Voice shrugged. That would be one hell of an encore. But one that was beyond even him.

John Crace’s new book, I, Maybot, is published by Guardian Faber. To order a copy for £6.99, saving £3, go to guardianbookshop.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p on a spend of over £10, online orders only. Minimum p&p of £1.99 for phone orders.