Photo by Sandra Ahn Mode on Unsplash
Dear Prime Minister, Minder of the Nation's self-worth, Our elected Megaphone-that-fits in these distracted times,
I have an an unkind image of you I cannot shake off (but dearly wish I could). It's of you staring at a map in some depressing little bunker. You move your hand disconsolately over now evaporated armies in the hope of some great miracle. But as so many placards usefully point out: THE END IS NIGH.
Dear found-out leader, your adjutants will now no longer need to tell you stuff (and not tell you stuff). The sniping will ease off to just the cleaning staff. Britain's doublet-and-hose will be replaced post-Brexit by a scabrous donkey jacket (one which feels like wire-wool around our armpits).
We have been dealt a journey by the EU Mob. Is that not so?
Yours bracing for the very worst (manly crying in the pubs of Stoke and Sunderland) (less manly crying in the tea-rooms of Westminster.
Honest John Clemmeridge
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