Brexit, as Theresa May famously teased, means Brexit. Only, as our box-fresh Prime Minister zooms across Europe on her Article 50 tour, I’m becoming less sure what Brexit means Brexit means. In the medium term it seems to mean paying the dreaded “experts” millions of pounds to tell us what it means. In the long term it means constitutional constipation, with EU diplomats warning that Britain has “not even worked out what all the questions are, let alone found the potential answers”.

And in the short term it means that the Brexit elite must reassure their supporters that something — anything! — has changed for the better since June 24. You can almost hear them muttering in Westminster backrooms: “We need a war … a winnable war…”

“How about painting the passports blue?”

“Genius!”

The Sun (whose former editor, Kelvin MacKenzie, was one of the first Brexit voters to confess to “buyer’s remorse”) is leading the campaign to restore our “true blue” passport and with it confidence in Project Bollocks. The maroon EU passports were introduced in 1988. Since then, apparently, many British citizens have resented waiting in the EU line at airports, as if they’re no better than Belgians or Slovaks.

So the Conservative MP and chairman of the All-Party Parliamentary Flags and Heraldry Committee Andrew Rosindell is among those who feel that altering the design should be May’s number one priority: “It’s a matter of identity. Having the pink European passports has been a humiliation.”

And if you think that’s a weirdly cretinous thing to say — they’re demonstrably not pink, they’re maroon, just like the passports of France, Peru, Japan, Madagascar and a whole range of EU and non-EU countries — you clearly misunderstand post-fact politics. These are the people who now expect to be heard.

It may seem a trivial point but travel document-related nostalgia has long been a motivating force for Brexiteers. “We could have blue passports again” was actually number 14 of the Telegraph’s 20 Reasons You Should Vote to Leave the European Union, along with “we could get rid of wind farms”, “we wouldn’t have to worry about Turkey” and “no more stupid recycling bins”.

Clearly what’s happened since is that the authors of Brexit have realised that reasons one to 13 and 15 to 20 aren’t as straightforward as they led British voters (and themselves) to believe — I’ve personally been recycling plastic and worrying about Turkey ever since.

And so they’re just trying to go big on number 14, like someone who’s ordered an inedibly hot curry but insists that they’re fine with just poppadoms. You’d think Samantha Cameron could have got a few navy Smythson passport- holders sent out to the Leave camp and saved everyone a lot of deportation threats and job losses.

Still, I wonder if this presents Theresa May with the chance to reconcile our Disunited Kingdom. Most arguments come down to taste in the end. Maybe remaining in the EU, only with special dispensation to print our passports the same colour as those of North Korea, Belarus and Venezuela as opposed to Portugal, Slovenia and Finland, is the most elegant compromise? I could live with that as a Remain voter.

Rosindell and friends would view it as an important victory, a sign that they had taken on their oppressors and won. And Article 50 etc — yeah, let’s just pretend it never happened and hope no one notices.

Flatpacks are the way forward, Kanye

There are more ways of changing the world than politics; at least that’s how many progressives console themselves in these neurotic times. Now Kanye West — who was all set to stand for the US Presidency in 2020 — is coming round to the idea that designing modular furniture might be a better career move. Apparently he had an epiphany on a recent visit to the Ikea HQ.

“Yo, Ikea,” he addressed the Swedish company in a recent interview. “Allow Kanye to create, allow him to make this thing because you know what, I want a bed that he makes, I want a chair that he makes.”

As so often, West is more perceptive than he’s given credit for. You could argue that Ikea founder Ingvar Kamprad has touched more lives than any mere statesman. One in 10 Europeans were conceived in an Ikea bed, after all.

And surely, a Kimye chiffonier or a Yeezy chaise longue would prove more durable than any mere song?

Making jokes is a matter of free speech

The Siddiqui family from Gogglebox has been forced to apologise after a Facebook “friend” reported them to the police for making a joke. Brothers Raza, Baasit and Umar posed in military fatigues with the caption: “ISIS training day. Look how happy we look!” The fact that they were smiling and clearly at a paintballing site didn’t deter the Derbyshire Constabulary from investigating.

Surely only one criterion truly matters when you’re judging if a joke is “appropriate” or not. Is it funny? Yes, hilarious. Why is it funny? Well, it touches on a common anxiety — Muslims! Terrorists! — and forces you to confront it on some level. To deny people the right to do this is a basic curtailment of free speech. I hope the Facebook snitch apologises to them for attempting to do so — sending him paintballing seems an appropriate punishment.

* There's concern over reports that fewer people own their home in Britain than at any time since 1986. But there’s a discrepancy: home-ownership hasn’t fallen in itself — after all, someone still owns those homes. It’s owner-occupancy that has fallen, which means more people renting second, third, fourth properties to people who can’t afford a place of their own. In other words, it’s another mark of a society of haves and have-nots.

The Conservatives traditionally associate home-ownership with good citizenship: it lets you lay down roots which in turns builds strong communities. Modern Conservatism, with its emphasis on speculation and enrichment, is having the opposite effect (and it’s worth pointing out that 39 per cent of Tory MPs are private landlords.)

What’s needed is not more home-ownership but more protection for tenants. It’s hard to plan for the future when your landlord has the right to boot you out after six months for someone who can pay a bit more.