"This means nothing to me, oh Vienna ..."

David Davis, the Don Quixote de nos jours, goes to Vienna.  The Guardian is slightly confused:

Davis was determined to start in an upbeat fashion. British and European business was working so well that, even as he was speaking, his jointly made Swedish and British driverless lawnmower was running amok, deadheading the daffodil shoots in his back garden in Yorkshire before they had even flowered. That was the kind of future he wanted. One where lawnmowers were free to go wherever they chose without facing customs checks from the French beans.

Brexit wasn’t going to be some Mad Max dystopian future, he continued. Though it might be like something out of the Hunger Games if we couldn’t persuade EU workers to come over to Britain to pick our fruit and veg. Not for the first time, people began to wonder if Davis had actually read his speech before delivering it. Never mind that less than two years previously, he had insisted the Brexit negotiations would be the easiest in history and that the UK was heading for a land of milk and honey. Now all he was promising was that Britain wasn’t going to end up as a desert with gangs of marauding psychopathic petrol heads competing for supremacy. In driverless lawnmowers.