Now that Boris Johnson has resigned as Foreign Minister (Amber Rudd having resigned as Home Secretary in April 2018) we can exclusively release this report from the Brexitman Papers 2017, the fictional diary of the former right honourable Harry Brexitman, of the Light Horse.
Brexitman, 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, curiously, on a small fishing vessel somewhere in Scapa Flow, provides an insider’s on the spot view which highlights the nature of the relationship the former Foreign Secretary had with his leader, Prime Minister Theresa May.
The Tory Conference 2017….diary extract begins…..
” I knew it was a mistake. I bloody well knew I shouldn’t have gone, but old Boris can be persuasive.
‘Come on Brex old chap’ he’d hollered from his office. ‘It’ll be a lark, I promise you. A decent paid-for-jolly is not to be sniffed at. We can enjoy a few days away from the tedium of this place. The bloody Eurocrats can wait.They know we don’t have a plan anyway so a few days break won’t matter. I’ve got to be at this bloody conference so you may as well join me.’
And with that the bewildering endless hours I’d spent pondering over tedious statistical reports from Foreign office boffins, some predicting massive disastrous Armageddon-like falls in trade, others suggesting survival as long as we suck up to that crazy bastard across the pond, came mercifully to an end for a few days. I was off to Manchester as part of Boris’s team for the Tory Conference.
Why they couldn’t have held it somewhere on the south coast I’ll never know. Bloody Manchester, full of oiks and unemployed DJ’s.
I’d known Boris since Eton, where I’d been on the periphery of the worryingly powerful group that he, Pfeff, as I’d known him as then, and his friend David, were part of. A small elite bunch who were slightly out there in terms of their attitude to life and their place in it, seeing others simply as only useful in service of their needs.
I’d tried several times to break into their inner circle, most notably on one occasion via the traditional Bullingdon Pay Homage to the Crackling ceremony but found at the last minute that my nerve had gone. Parlour-maids, nanny, air stewardesses, and once even with my father’s floozy (the governor being in a brandy fuelled coma on a sofa in his study at the time) but a pig, Sus scrofa domesticus. No, not for Harry Brexitman, I simply couldn’t do it.
‘Come and work for me’, he’d said, when I’d bumped into him one Autumn mid- morning after the European referendum unexpectedly in Horseguards. ‘You’ve plenty of experience abroad in the army. Join us at the FO. Just do what I do, lounge around a bit, look like you know what your talking about, shout at a flunkey or two now and then, and then it’s three hour lunches in the Strand and a hasty withdrawal to the club for drinks at five o clock every day. C’mon Harry, this is right up your street man.’
Now months later I was wondering when it would be, at last, that the British public would twig that we were no further forward, at all, in coming up with a plan to make any sort of a fist of the breakaway from the red tape circus at Brussels. In fact we were showing no signs of ever having a strategy other than wait and bloody see what happens at the time when they officially kick us out, oh, and food rationing.
Mind you, having said that, Boris, David Davis and his troupe of keystone cops are doing a great job at slowing any sort of progress down to a snails pace.
Last week a young bright spark, fresh intake as a civil servant, a graduate of the LSE and a comprehensive somewhere in Torbay, came up with an idea to retain access to the single market which might suit all sides. That afternoon he was seen heading out the front door carrying a cardboard box containing a photo of his cat and a large Toblerone, whilst being accompanied on his journey by a security guard. Davis had sent him packing.
Anyway back to the conference. I had a raging hangover, after a few days boozing and a late night, drinking and carousing at the bar with two party activists from Essex, nice young fillies they were, one of whom’s father had been on the Iron Lady’s policy team which had suggested that she test the poll tax out on the Scots first. They seemed really interested in my war stories and my cavalry moustache.
Boris, for my sins, seeing my ghost-train-like demeanour, made me sit behind him, that frightful Rudd woman and David Davis in the conference hall for the Prime Minister’s speech.
My God, that woman can drone on. I squirmed as some bloody fool demonstrator delivered her her marching papers in front of the entire audience and then headed our way shouting that Boris had sent him. Give the big shaggy chap his due, he managed to ignore the idiot, who was eventually bustled away. He’d have done us a favour if he’d taken the PM with him.
Then, looking like a rabbit who has managed to find itself on to the M1 on a bank holiday, the leader of the country launched in to an interminable coughing fit. We couldn’t tell what she was saying half the time. I think I heard her mention Randall and Hopkirk, Xanadu and pickled Asparagus at one point, but I can’t be entirely sure.
Then to cap it off the bloody signage on the stage set behind her started to drop letters on to the floor. At this development the five rows of party faithful sitting around us couldn’t have failed to hear Boris mumble very loudly at the top of his voice “She just needs to fart now and we’ve had the full set.” This drew a glance from Rudd that would have turned steel to a molten pool.
I was beginning to lose the will to live at the point when our beloved leader saved us from any further punishment by coming to an anti-climactic halt, the words ‘ strong’ and ‘stable’ ringing in my ears.
Head pounding, throat dry and sweating I used that moment, just as the haphazard clapping began in acknowledgement of the worst hour of a Prime Minister’s life in living memory, as a cue to make a sharp exit to the bar, hearing over my shoulder Ms Rudd snarl in Boris’s direction ‘Get up and applaud, you fat bastard. Cheer like you love her.’………..” It was then that I saw a look come into Boris’s eyes that I’d never seen before, and I knew that he was completely mad…..”
Apologies dear readers. At this point the diary pages immediately after this extract seem to have been immersed in liquid (possibly red wine) and are unfortunately unreadable.
(With all due respect and acknowledgment to George MacDonald Fraser and his fictional historical rogue Harry Flashman).