No one’s ever had a Renegotiation Dinner before, not even Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow. Why would you? Custom dictates that guests bring something with them – a bottle of wine, perhaps.
What never happens, not even in the ritualised dining societies of Oxford, is that someone turns up, demands to know what the other guests intend to give him and, if it’s not good enough, sods off home in an Uber.
But that, of course, is the course of action our Prime Minister will, in theory, be taking on Thursday evening: exchanging pleasantries with the rest of Europe’s leaders, then tucking into his tea and, by way of polite conversation, making it clear that none of the guests are welcome round at his.
Of course, it’s not as simple as that. The other guests know he doesn’t really want to leave, and that he isn’t going to. None of them have bought him any presents: no chianti, no croissant, no currywurst, no Polish sausage. And however unwelcome he says they might be, he can’t stop them turning up anyway. Just like those tedious eurosceptics at the Tory Christmas drinks.
In fact, they know, David Cameron loves these dinners, and the thought of not coming terrifies him. In July the EU spent £2m on fancy crockery and cutlery for the hosting of dinners just like these. He knows full well that the opportunity to smash plates of that quality and then anonymously send a bill the next day is a rare privilege indeed.
They all know that, if he does deliver on his threat of flouncing out, it’ll be into the sunset and historical notoriety. Britain out of Europe. Scotland out of Britain. And, even – who knows? – Jeremy Corbyn in Number 10.
So it’s not a Renegotiation Dinner at all. It’s like every other dinner party he’s ever been to – a lot of polite talk, very little action, and the desperate hope that, at the end of it, everything will just carry on as normal. Which it will. Won’t it?
