I spent the weekend at the Latitude festival in Suffolk with my children, Nelson and Mandela. Like a good metropolitan liberal elitist, I had all my tastes and prejudices confirmed, and all in a safe family-friendly environment. But when I left the site on Monday it seemed that, while I was eating sushi in recyclable rice coatings and cheering the snowflake oi of Idles, the post-second world war power balance had shifted beyond all recognition. I can’t turn my back for a second.

Donald Trump, having spent the previous week calling the European Union his “foe”, like a mad medieval king, was now taking the dictator Vladimpaler Putin’s side against evidence-based investigations into the kind of Russian meddling that helped swing an American election, destabilise the EU, fan the global far right, popularise Fortnite, drive swarms of hornets into Dorset, kill our English newts, and deliver Brexit.

“I don’t see any reason why it would be Russia,” Trump proclaimed at the press conference, having already fondled a football presented to him by master-puppeteer Putin, which made the president look like a disturbed zoo monkey given toys to stop him flinging his excrement at visitors. I expected the tanks to roll west into the Baltic states unchallenged within hours, showered with stars-and-stripes confetti in a New York-style ticker-tape parade.

Luckily, overnight, Trump realised that what he had meant to say was not “I don’t see any reason why it would be Russia,” but “I don’t see any reason why it wouldn’t be Russia.” This is fortunate, as otherwise he could have been executed for treason, an event that would doubtless have drawn even larger crowds than his famously full inauguration, especially if it saw a repeat performance from the TwirlTasTix baton-twirling group.

Overnight, the Republicans had constructed a paper-thin plausible denial, hoping that no news agencies, in our micro-attention-span world, would run Trump’s explanation of his misspeak alongside the press conference footage, where context and his repeated use of the preposition “but” would show he had clearly meant to say exactly what he said in the first place, without a shadow of a doubt. Which is exactly what happened.

Nonetheless, even in a period of unprecedented stupidity and cynicism, Trump’s “would”/”wouldn’t” gambit represents a new low in contempt for human intelligence, and a rejection of language itself, words and their actual meanings now a kind of obsolete tool in the battle for the hearts and minds of the very worst people on earth.

How easy it appears to be to unravel and reverse the great statements of the past with a simple negative insertion. Neville Chamberlain returns from seeing Hitler in 1938 and utters the reputation saving denial: “I do not have in my hand a piece of paper.” Martin Luther King’s 1963 address is reremembered, to satisfy the racist vote, as: “I do not have a dream, and anyone who says I did must have misheard me.”

Descartes is reverse-engineered to proclaim the perfect philosophy for the Trump-Brexit era: “I do not think, therefore I am.” And his philosophical forebear Shakespeare is retooled to offer the timeless truism: “ To not be, or to be, that is not the question.”

Meanwhile, our cowardly, self-interested MPs were given many opportunities in parliament earlier this week to sabotage Brexit in the national interest, but the traitors put pride and party loyalties before the future of the country, choosing instead to stoke the petrol engine of the out-of-control Brexit Flymo™ with even more incendiary lies as it hurtles towards the landscaped no-deal ha-ha.

Instead of voting against Brexit, the Liberal Democrat Tim Farron was actually in Dorset charging milkmaids £5 to watch him struggle to accommodate his feelings about the homosexuals and his feelings about an all-knowing God he imagines has very strong views on the specifics of marriage legislation.

God would have wanted Tim to vote. Anyone can tell that snowflake God would obviously be a remainer, but if the result of the corrupt referendum must be honoured, the Lord would at least favour a soft Brexit. Like Jeremy Corbyn, Jesus Christ would be a hard Brexiteer, but only because he imagined a fairer society could be built from the ruins of the old one. Drive your plough over the bones of the dead.

Nonetheless, if Tim and Vince Cable had turned up, Monday’s Brexit trade vote would almost have been a dead heat, and the nation would be a little bit closer to avoiding the need to stockpile tins of Alphabetti Spaghetti in its cellars.

As an ardent remoaner, I was at least looking forward to enjoying a degree of post-Brexit schadenfreude, as leavers were forced to own their bullshit. But Trump’s “would”/“wouldn’t” strategy must be a great comfort to our bold buccaneering Brexiteers, many of whom have recently quit their jobs in order to avoid being held accountable to statements they made two years ago, now demonstrably revealed as dishonest and undeliverable.

Now the brave Brexiteers can merely rewrite what they said in retrospect. What’s that squeaking noise? It’s Brexiteer privateer Daniel Hannanananan, peering out from behind an effigy of Elgar, to declare: “absolutely nobody is not talking about threatening our place in the single market”.

And there, towelling himself down on a union jack jolly roger, Liam Fox announces that the Brexit deal “will not be one of the easiest in human history”, before hopping on to a bus emblazoned with the legend “Let’s not give our NHS the £350m the EU doesn’t take every week”, driven by a doleful Boris Johnson, looking at a cake he has on the dashboard but which he is, on this occasion, unable to also eat.

Once you were post-fact. Now you are post-post-fact. That’s going to work out well. Not.

Stewart Lee’s Content Provider will be on BBC Two at 10.45pm on Saturday 28 July, and then on iPlayer