A recent extract from the Brexitman Papers 2017, the fictional diary of the former right honourable Harry Brexitman, of the Light Horse, late a Member of Parliament (prior to a scandal involving a bawdy house of temptation somewhere between Chancery Lane and Fleet Street) ex- junior equerry to HM the Duke of Edinburgh, and now foreign affairs consultant to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, as well as a silent director and shareholder of five separate major banking and financial institutions based in Bermuda, Jersey, and on a small fishing vessel somewhere in Scapa Flow…….
“Blasted frogs and dagoes. How dare they think they can railroad us into complying with their overheated demands. Why should we follow through on commitments we agreed to if we’re not going to be part of their little club? Daylight robbery.
Old Boris is right, nice chap, we occasionally meet at weekend underground fox hunting and dog baiting soirees. They can whistle for it. They’ll not get a penny piece out of us. I was just saying to Speedicut and the likely fellows down at the club the other afternoon, over brandy and cigars, we’re not here to fall into line behind a bunch of garlic crunching bureaucrats, we’re British, damn their eyes.
If I was still at horse guards we wouldn’t be long in burying a few lance tips into johnny’s arsecheeks, I don’t mind telling you. That would stir them up a bit.
What did we get for all of that cash we flung into that bottomless pit in Belgium? Belgium, what’s so good about Belgium I ask you? My pile in Nottinghamshire is bigger than Belgium.
They’ll make sure that they comply with our demands in the end for continued free trade, those swarthy types, just you see if they don’t. It’s all just bluff and bluster. They know that ultimately we are superior to them in every way. Our Dunkirk spirit will see us through.
Free movement? They’ll get the free movement of the end of my cavalry boot if they are not careful.
Who needs all of those namby pamby health and safety rules anyway? Plays shocking havoc with the profit margin, makes building luxury flats and shopping centres hardly worth the effort. Who cares if you lose a few falling off scaffolds on bridges or overturning cranes. We built an empire with workforces dropping like flies and never batted an eyelid. Mark my words, once all of this European nonsense is in the past we’ll do it all again, just you wait and see.
As for that dago King using a trip supposedly to honour our gracious Majesty as an excuse to mention Gibraltar,, tall as a tree trunk, and twice as thick, just let him try and take it back. The fact that our rock is attached to his country is neither here nor there. One hint of more than five of those blighters from Madrid crossing that runway as a group and we’ll have gunboats, sailboats and the Devonshire Queen, twice around the lighthouse for a pound, armed to the teeth and sailing sou-easterly in days.
Let him worry about those blasted separatists of his instead of our sacred God-given land. Uncle Jeremy, now retired from his role as a private secretary at Defence, let it slip once that the current King’s father was told years ago by our ambassador at the time that it was a huge mistake letting them have their own TV channels and newspapers. He didn’t listen of course.
I was sitting near his Queen at the dinner our Gracious Majesty put on for the ungrateful swine. I’d have given him bread and dripping if it was left to me. Quite a pleasant filly though, his Mrs. More than once she glanced in my direction, not the first, and she’ll not be the last, who likes the cut of my gib, I’m sure.
Sitting directly across from me at the table, the poached salmon gave me dreadful wind by the way, was that vacuous youngest son of our Sovereign, He gets further down the line of succession every year. Five goes at the Admiralty Interview Board and three weeks getting his photographs taken playing on the swings in Devon twenty five years ago, and he’s got more medals hanging off his left tit than the Coldstream Guards. Burp! Oops that was a close one,One was close to touching one’s cloth.
Anyway I must be off. I’ve just heard that I’ve been selected as one of the key diplomatic team, front and centre,in the room, and at the table, for the EU withdrawal negotiations in Brussels.
(With all due respect and acknowledgment to George MacDonald Fraser and his fictional historical character Harry Flashman)