Boris Brexit drops a clanger

Madame Brexit was delighted with her sheer cleverness in landing three of the foremost leaver loons with the mind-bending complexities of managing Brexit. The people had spoken. Brexit meant Brexit, but what was it? Nobody had a clue, least of all the Brexiteers. It was best to play along with the nutters who promoted the daft idea. Let them take responsibility for it and, if it failed (more than likely), on their heads be it. Boris Brexit settled himself at his Louis quattorze desk at the Foreign Office, a grand Palladian structure dripping with hidden signs of European influence. A crowd of shifty-eyed Herberts crept around the place, kissing bottoms and crafting policies of mass delusion. Liam Brexit had been making a nuisance of himself, laying claim to large parts of the Foreign Office on behalf of the new free trade Kingdom of Brexitannia. Boris repelled these attacks, but at some cost. Madame Brexit agreed to slap the upstart Liam down but she insisted that Boris should make peace with Erdogan, Caliph of Ankara. “We’re open for business with emerging markets”, she told Boris, “and Ankara is one of the most important capitals, on Europe’s doorstep. Get on with it”. Boris crept out of Mother Brexit’s office and set to work with a heavy heart. A mere few weeks earlier he issued lurid warnings of an imminent invasion of eighty million rampaging Turkish immigrants. Now he must kiss and make up with the chief Turk. The Herberts could hardly conceal their delight. The shame-faced Foreign Secretary followed orders and packed himself off to Ankara where the first item of business was a gruelling audience with the chief Turk, whom Boris recently derided, very publicly, as “the wankerer from Ankara”. Boris could never have imagined he would be confronted with the costs of his indiscretion so soon. Boris Brexit entered the audience chamber, flanked by two of the most senior Herberts, with a cold, anxious disposition. He reached out a sweaty palm and shook hands with the Caliph. Erdogan glared at Boris with the expression of a man compelled to inspect a blocked drain. “Greetings from Brexitannia”, the Wankerer exclaimed, “I have the greatest respect for your washing machines. Did you know my grandfather?” “How did this lunatic get in here?” Erdogan exclaimed. He withdrew his hand and hurried out of the chamber. The Herberts ushered Boris away for a high-visibility walkabout in a widget factory followed by a visit to a bathing establishment where portly Mediterranean gentlemen of a certain age sought fellowship and relaxation in a steamy cavernous hall. Boris followed the chief Herbert, who seemed suspiciously familiar with the place, to a room where a giant masseur stood over a roly-poly man lying face down on a massage table. A demonstration of back-scrubbing techniques had been arranged for Boris’s benefit. “This could be a useful skill” one of the Herberts observed slyly. Boris watched as the burly masseur fondled a bar of soap in his foaming hands and shoved it between the cheeks of the prostrate client’s bottom. “Ouch” Boris exclaimed. He could imagine this technique becoming all too familiar in the weeks and months to come as he and his fellow Brexiteers navigated the caverns and whirlpools of Euro negotiations. “Blimey, what have I let myself in for?” he thought. Boris flopped back in his seat on the vintage RAF biplane on his way home. Heading back to Blighty, to face his detractors, seemed like a blessed relief compared with having to kow-tow to the likes of Erdogan. He opened his red box and his heart sank as he inspected a list of other foreign capitals where he would have to grovel to various persons of rank whom he had insulted. He began to wonder if he had made the right choice in going for this Foreign Office gig. Writing drivel for the Daily Telegraph was delicious fun compared with this agony and there was so much more to come.


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