The proposed Brexit museum is a great idea. Brexit will be the most seismic peacetime event to happen to this country in living memory, so it makes sense to permanently commemorate it somehow. Plus, when your grandchildren inevitably ask you why everything’s got so bad, it’ll be easier to just take them out and show them a lying bus.
However, a Brexit museum will tell only half the story. To understand the true tale of Brexit, I propose erecting a remain museum next door. Don’t worry, I’ve got all the exhibits lined up and ready to go.
Fast-track entry!
Relive the glory days of being in the EU by swanning into the museum via a perfect replication of Heathrow airport’s EU-Only arrivals gate. The queue is short, moves quickly and contains approximately no crying children. People might actually smile at you. Hey, remember smiling?
Cheap wine!
Help yourself to a refreshing glass of pre-Brexit wine, a full 25% cheaper than it is now. That’s right: in the remain museum people drink wine again, not like in real life where they just drop old batteries in milk and hope that they get a buzz off all the rust and acid.
The wall of passports!
Passports of every imaginable colour except blue. All made in the UK, ironically.
A waxwork figure of David Cameron, fat and chainsmoking and lonely, hiding from the world in his expensive shepherd’s caravan!
Go in and sit with him, to see how long you can stand the echo-drenched chorus of dispossessed children’s voices chanting “Your fault your fault your fault” in a nightmarish Poe-style representation of the inside of David Cameron’s head.
A nice sunlounger!
Hey, come in! Soak up the sun! Would you like a sangria? Of course you would! You worked hard all your life to enjoy a Mediterranean retirement. It’s a shame that this is the closest you’ll ever come to it now, but who am I to deny the will of the people?
All the bodily fluids secreted by Nigel Farage the morning after the vote!
Thanks to quick thinking on the part of a cushion-wringing researcher, we now have every last drop of stale sweat produced by Nigel Farage as he realised what he’d done during his Good Morning Britain interview the morning after the referendum. Some say that, if you hold up a picture of Susanna Reid, the sweat still groans in fear.
Lots of pictures of international banks!
Remember the financial sector? No? Here’s a visual representation, accompanied by a mournful instrumental rendition of Barbra Streisand’s The Way We Were.
A loaded shotgun!
Replicate the reasoning of the 52% by sitting down on a damp deckchair and blowing your own feet into tatty stumps for no immediately understandable reason.
Jeremy Corbyn’s Wondrous Realm Of Deliberately Cryptic Obfuscation!
A magical land where nothing is quite what it seems. Up is down and down is up in this twirling kaleidoscope of a room. Will you ever find your way out? Probably not, since all the curators here have been trained to tell you more or less what you want to hear, but in such frustratingly vague terms that it leaves you more confused than ever.
A huge screen playing the bit from Planet of the Apes where Charlton Heston hammers on the sand and screams “YOU MANIACS! YOU BLEW IT UP! DAMN YOU! GOD DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL!” over and over again at deafening volume!
You know, just because.
An abandoned lift shaft with a bucket of cold vomit at the bottom!
Why not relive the sensation of waking up on the morning of 24 June 2016 by teetering on the edge of the shaft and looking down into the infinite darkness, wondering how long it’d take you to reach the bottom and how much the impact would hurt? Why not reel from the intermittent wafts of stone-cold bile drifting up from the gloomy depths below? Why not stare off into the far distance with a look of incomprehensible bewilderment on your face, wondering what you did wrong and why you’re being punished so harshly? Why not? Why not, huh?
• Stuart Heritage writes about film, music and TV for the Guardian
