Les folies de Brexit #4






Bron Jerkoff

“Ordures! Ordures!” As Her Majesty’s incredibly important Speaker for the House of Commons, it is my Order! Order! I will be heard Order! Order! my solemn duty to remain unscrupulously neutral in a liberally progressive manner. Now shut up and listen.

I was only shouting to my wife the other day (I have to shout, because her ears are in her head, not her knees) that nobody in Britain seems to understand logic any more. It is my job to defend the rights of the House of Commons, and I have to remain focused on that and never allow myself to be distracted by the Mob of old reactionaries outside these walls who got us into this mess in the first place, and forced my lovely wife to quite understandably to put a “Fuck Brexit” banner on her car window. She is her own person and it is not for me to control her especially as she’s much bigger than me.

Despite this watertight defence of my position, I find myself assailed by tabloids such as The Sun who claim that I hurled abuse at my aides and tossed their memos about bias into the bin. This is completely false: I merely tossed gratuitous abuse to correct these half-baked aides, and then hurled their allegations into the bin I keep handy at all times for ill-conceived advice.

There have of course been the usual media dramatists who insist that just because Dominic Grieve and I have the odd tete-a-tete on an hourly basis there is some form of secret and perverted process taking place. I therefore feel the need to go on the record and state categorically that nothing improper has ever passed between us. It is simply that, as very much the men of the hour, we occasionally exchange views about how some things can be speeded up or slowed down for the good of the nation as a whole. These have been mistakenly – and in some cases mischievously – described as meetings about tactics, but the reality is that the end goal here is efficiency.

At the core of Brexit, you see, is a battle between the controlling powers of the out-of-control executive and its murky, unelected friends….and the voices of 600 or more visionary MPs in the legislature whose maturity is so amply demonstrated at PMQs every Wednesday that I am forced to admonish them from time to time.

This is not a struggle that involves The People of Britain, and they would be well-advised to stay out of it: you had your say in 2016, and now it’s our job to ensure that we have the final say, because Sovereignty lies with Parliament, not you. And if that means ceding such Sovereignty to Brussels, well, it is simply awash with lovely restaurants, uninhibited live shows and haute couture établissements in which my honourable self and my beloved can indulge ourselves once our days of public service in the bright red light areas are done.

Those days are not that far away, given that I shall be stepping down from my august role later on this year as a result of a lot of impertinent questions being raised about my ability to control bullying at Westminster. Given a long experience of controlling domestic bullying myself, such insinuations are of course completely without foundation….but rather than descend to the level of such sewer filth, Sally and I have decided to head off into the sunset once we are both sure that your desired Brexit has been translated into something practical, as opposed to suicidal.

In the meantime, I remain your most ambidextrous dissimulator