(An extract from the Brexitman papers 2020-2028)
His head groggy from a bawdy night of floozies, claret and gin Flash Harry Brexitman opened his red eyes with a squint as his housemaid, Oleta, a sultry type from central Africa, who so far had spurned his advances, thrust the curtains open in the bedroom of his Knightsbridge flat.
Living in the new Charlesian Age, glorious times for the new empire, he was accustomed to regular strolls through Buck House with his Scotch wife Elspeth, the daughter of a ghastly old miserly retail park owner from somewhere in deepest Strathclyde, positively drowning in bunce of the nouveau riche variety, not of the right class don’t ye know, but a good source of income for Flash as long as he kept the bumbling Scotch ninny happy, and in love.
Elspeth had struck up a friendship of sorts with the Princess Consort Camilla, not Queen but consort, as Prince Albert had been to Victoria, over champagne and cigarettes at Ricky Branson’s 80th birthday party, which meant that Flash was often invited to private intimate gatherings of the Royals, where, on occasion, he would find His Majesty, a peculiar, ineffectual and rather fret-filled man prone to talking to shrubbery, writing letters of furious outrage, which were never read, to the Prime Minister of the day, a domineering brash cove, the leader of the Faragist Party.
Harry pondered that times had certainly changed since those dark, politically correct and dreary days when those blasted Froggies,Paella Eaters and Huns had ruled the roost. Once England, as the whole of the former UK was now known, following reclassification to ensure our good King’s subjects in our new colonies don’t become confused, had extricated itself from the European Union (those bloody foreigners making it as hard as possible, leaving us near as poor as church-mice, damn their eyes) it was all change.
Within two years of extreme upheaval,the peasants revolting, the riot act being read, several times, and a few choice lynchings, the last of the opposition was gone. Lack of identity being the big problem. It’s all very well those do-gooder red nosed types waffling on about stopping gutter snipes sleeping on the pavement in Mayfair, and feeding families of fourteen in Newcastle, but saying one thing and doing another just doesn’t work. Survival of the fittest is the way to go. All ‘right’ minded Britons know that.
Having demonstrated as much for many years those former revolutionary progressives, most of them comfortably fat arsed in the Lords anyway, gave up the ghost and admitted they were just like the rest of us. That is apart from those in that ghastly rain soaked hell-hole Elspeth hails from, Scotchland. Must be the rotgut spirits addling what passes for their brains.
No, they just had to be different, awkward cusses the Scotch, when you can understand what the hell it is they are ranting about it in that strange shouting noise they describe as an accent.
We gave the buggers devolved power over the colour of signposts ( so they bloody well started writing them in that dumb Irish language they used to jabber in before we civilised them) They whined and whinged that it wasn’t enough, ungrateful Bastards. We gave them the opportunity to leave us twice. Uncle Bertram, who works hush hush in Whitehall, let it loose to me once whilst three sheets to the wind at Tilly Parkson-Brown’s gallery opening, that we also ‘counted’ the votes, on both occasions, some of them twice, nudge nudge, wink wink! So we took the powers back from the blighters, and quite right too.
Now they are in a huff. A few years ago withdrawing the horde of lumpen oafs the peasants sent down here to represent them, and setting them up, as they describe it, as an interim government in waiting, in that monstrosity they called a parliament, built by a chorizo eater, what would you expect. A blasted cheek if you ask me. England has given them everything and this is how they treat us.
Our peasants are all scrambling about lining up for soup, and falling off private hospital waiting lists when they can’t manage the insurance premiums and those buggers up there are running a free health service, giving out prescriptions (they’re all on drugs anyway) and bloody well allowing Prols into their universities, and they are still sneaking Europeans and the odd war torn immigrant, from the colonies, into the country. Cheeky bastards. It’ll end in tears.
Harry rose from his silken sheets, and considered the day ahead. He had received word the night before that he was to report to Chelsea Barracks forthwith. He suspected this sudden recall from a leisurely leave for a lieutenant colonel was to do with the spot of bother in one of the new colonies he’s been reading about in The Times during an afternoon in the smoking room of the club yesterday.
It was becoming an all too regular problem. Despot governments of far distant lands being exposed, the good old BBC was good for that, and then taking the hump once we decide that we have no alternative but to intervene, for humanitarian purposes of course, to re-establish order, and democracy. I wonder if it’s oil or minerals this time, thought Harry. Tally-Ho!
(With all due respect and acknowledgment to George MacDonald Fraser and his fictional character Harry Flashman).