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Call me crazy, but I am beginning to suspect that thrusting a diehard Remainer into the job of pulling Great Britain out of the European Union was, on second thought, a bad move.

Excuse me for being glacially slow to arrive at this moment of clarity.

The revolution, though each pathetic flutter has been painfully televised, is indeed over. This week, Theresa May appears to have given up on her deal to leave the EU. And she is now siding with probably the most intellectually impoverished pseudo-sentient being to besmirch parliament in at least three centuries.

Labour Party leader Jeremy Corbyn, sexagenarian Holden Caulfield sans the wit, humor, or intellectual incision, is now entrusted with the most consequential decision to befall our country since World War II.

What Corbyn thinks about Brexit is largely unknown. If he thinks at all it is unverified. His ex-wife claimed that in their four years together, “Jeremy” didn’t read one book. And he detested “bourgeoise” holiday spots. In the middle flushes of his youth, he vacationed in Communist East Germany. So, as you may deduce, he is a barrel of laughs. A box of frogs.

But May, still our prime minister, reported this week she held “constructive” talks with Corbyn with the hope of solving the Brexit impasse. She can’t do much else. Lawmakers killed her withdrawal agreement three times. Other lawmakers threatened to take control, and then voted several times against taking any semblance of control.

A lawmaker friend of mine, one of the original and thoroughly fruity Brexiteers, is so desperate to leave he has voted for May’s deal three times.

“Nobody here,” he said, interrogatively, “seems to know what they are doing.” Which is alright, I suppose, if one is standing in a Subway queue and the meat of discussion centers upon pointlessly large sandwiches. The most consequential of endeavors in such instances concerns ranch dressing. But he was not in a sandwich shop. This was the House of Commons.

Though, I hazard, 600 of the 650 lawmakers would struggle to run a Subway.

Jeremy Corbyn certainly would. Actually, that is a harsh prosecution of Subway managers. Corbyn couldn’t tong his way into a salad without first moralizing on the plight of Nicaraguan lettuce farmers.

And now he is effectively deputy prime minister.

The Brexiteers, understandably , are furious. After voting down May’s deal—as potentially loathsome as that deal might be—what’s on offer now is remorseless in appetite.

Apparently, May is warming to a customs union with the EU. To spare you the wearisome details: our trade policies would be out of our hands. No big beautiful trade deal from President Trump.

May’s lawmakers are seething. Only 37 of them voted on Monday for such an arrangement. A full 236 voted against. May has gone postal, and many in her party demand she be fragged.

But they should hold fire and resist rolling a proverbial grenade under her cubicle just yet.

In her speech, announcing the Corbyn talks, May pointed out that she felt forced to do so. She softly mentioned those Brexiteer holdouts had forced her to take such a noxious step.

May has gone nuclear. And the revulsion, as she surely hoped, will smoke out the last 50 or so diehards who refuse to push Brexit over the line in hope of a chimerical “no deal,” which won’t happen even though it is the best option.

The threat of a Corbyn-tainted Brexit should be enough, unbelievably, to push May’s withdrawal deal through parliament on the fourth time of asking, while exposing Corbyn’s double-bluff.

You see, Corbyn has played both Remainers and Leavers. His traditional base, the old working classes and lower-middle classes, now known as the precariat, backs Brexit by a ponderous margin. Meanwhile, the urban metropolitans are stridently Remain, and make up the bulk of those fighting to overturn the people.

If the Labour heartlands knew what Corbyn really thought about immigration and Britishness, he’d swing from a lamppost. Proverbially. Not to mention his anti-Semitism and his flirtations with every putrid sack of organs on political earth.

As in America, a realignment is underway in the UK. As Democrats are slowly realizing, their inconvenient old voters are not keen on the utopian machinations of their party’s coastal influence. Something must give. And it already has. They won’t win in 2020 or 2024. Rural America belongs to President Trump. The future, if the GOP wants it, rests with these voters, and the middle-class. The radical majority.

So, by forcing Jeremy Corbyn from his plant upon the fence, perhaps Theresa May can expose just how alien he and his Labour party are to the desires of the wallowing-behind. Something Trump has done with brutal verve.

It is a sound gamble. And it might just work. Brexiteers would rather vote through May’s deal, sack her soon after, and rescue Brexit in the second round, than consider a Corbyn Brexit diluted to the taste of pointlessness. They’ll go for the former.

But the theater of Brexit reveals the real prize. Like the Trump election did in America, our vote to leave the European Union unmasked the barely concealed class hatred of progressive elites towards those they glibly left behind in the 1990s. Those they pretend are not just Netflix serfs on this wondrous Planet Uber.

Those hoping to govern for generations will position themselves accordingly. As I keep saying, the center of Great Britain and America rests with the socially conservative, economically sane. Nobody else matters. Certainly not Jeremy Corbyn.

Photo Credit: Anthony Devlin/Anthony Devlin/Getty Images