Before sitting down to his traditional Christmas dinner of mashed Brussels sprouts, Brexit leeks, roasted Whitehall variety potatoes, parsimonious nips de Barnier and mini Stuttgart Wurst from Merkel Sausage Farms GmbH, Nobby Dee takes the time out to relate an odd encounter with the ghosts of Eurochristmas past.

T’other night, I experienced one of my more vivid dreams. I’d been laid in bed minding me own business when there was a knock on the door. My immediate reaction was, ‘who comes knocking on Christmas Eve?’ Then after about ten minutes of wondering and questioning, ‘who comes knocking’, I decided that the best way to discover who it was that was doing the knocking was to get up, pop downstairs, open the door and then I’d know for certain who it was that had come a knocking.

Equipped with a pair of duelling pistols, a service revolver and a club for smashing the heads of eels into a pulp bequeathed to me by my Grandmother who’d been eeeling on the banks of the Mersey before sliding down a steep muddy bank to be consumed by the freezing brine and drowning, I began to descend the creaking staircase to discover who it was. Thoughts of terror and unimaginable evil raced through my mind and yet, at the very same time I was completely calm in a inner state of equilibrium no doubt brought about because I’d supped twelve pints of ale, eaten a handful of psilocybin mushrooms and two dose units of diazepam.

Armed to the fucking teeth and more than ready to kill any bastard intent on breaching my bubble of Tier Four, I gingerly opened the door to discover it was only Guy Verhofstadt, that gap toothed wild eyed federalist who was clearly outside his bubble. I told him, ‘this here is Tier Four Verhofstadt and you’ve no business being here. Now fuck off or I’ll be forced to administer you some British punishment’.

Course, he wanted to have his say didn’t he. Clearly bruised by my remarks to him on Twitter where I suggested to his millions of acolytes that he was a ringer for Olive off the seventies show, ‘On The Buses’, he demanded I hand over any fish I’d got in my freezer, sing Ode To Glory and consent to him subjecting me to numerous acts of manly love.

Separated at birth? Guy (top) & Olive (bottom)

It all kicked off then! After gibbering some obscenities in biblical tongues that pretty much told him to fuck off back to Dover and get back in his own bubble, I cocked both duelling pistols and shot him – howling, ‘We take our bubbles seriously round here pal. This here is a home of law abiding folk who diligently recycle their rubbish and don’t appreciate being woken up by vindictive Belgian parliamentarians on Christmas Eve.’

After I shot him, I placed Verhofstadt in the recovery position and went back to bed where, in the depths of a good nights sleep, I suddenly decided on my New Years resolution which, if I’m not in a coma and hooked up to a ventilator in the next few days, I will add to the undiluted rancid pigswill that I so effortlessly shovel out.

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