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For you Tommy, das Brexit is over!


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Scene: A bedroom in 10 Downing Street. A bespectacled man in a dressing down stands beside a four-poster bed.


Man: More tea, Prime Minister?

Woman occupant of bed: Thank you, Philip. So much nicer with a pinch of Earl Grey, don't you think?

Man: Indubitably, Prime Minister. There is a visitor outside to see you.

Woman: Who is it?

Man: Sir Tufton Bufton, Chairman of the 1922 Committee.

Woman: Ask him to come in, will you Philip?

Man: Certainly, Prime Minister.


An elderly gentleman in a pin-striped suit enters the bedroom.


Gent: Good morning, Prime Minister. Thank you for the knighthood.

Woman: It was richly deserved, Tufton.

Gent: How may I be of service, Prime Minister?

Woman (reaches for gilt-edged card on the bedside table): I should value your Committee's views on my new Cabinet. I intend to make several changes. Cut out some of the dead wood. Strong and stable must remain our watchwords.

Gent: Quite so, Prime Minister. Will you be appointing a new Chancellor?

Woman: I certainly will! I'm sending Hammond to the Lords, as he seems to spend most of his time asleep in the Chamber.

Gent: Who will be replacing him?

Woman: Stephen Fry.

Gent (spluttering): But he's an Iron Hoof!

Woman: He's in a same-sex marriage, if you don't mind, Tufton. It's all perfectly legal these days. Anyway, I want to annoy that fat lump Arlene Foster.

Gent: Very well, Prime Minister; I'll put it to my Committee. And Home Secretary?

Woman (closing her eyes wistfully): Ah yes.  An Office of State I know well. Dealing with intransigent Chief Constables and our archaic judiciary is a huge challenge, which calls for someone with a commanding presence. So my new Home Secretary will be Dame Shirley Bassey.

Gent: An unusual choice, if I may say so, Prime Minister. And the Foreign Office. Will Boris be staying?

Woman (opening her eyes menacingly): No he will NOT! I'm fed up with that bovine clown's gaffes. I'm moving him to Northern Ireland.

Gent: A form of political punishment beating which I seem to recall our last woman Prime Minister favoured!

Woman: Exactly. His place is to be taken by a true diplomatic and a distinguished man of letters.

Gent: A senior figure from the diplomatic service, no doubt.

Woman: Sir Ken Dodd. What a great ambassador he'll make for this country. Meeting world leaders like Putin and Erdogan - and of course that nice Mr Trump.

Gent: And Brexit, Prime Minister. What would you like me to tell the Committee about your new Brexit strategy? Will it now be a Soft Brexit? Or a Collegiate Brexit? Or perhaps a Swiss Muesli Brexit?

Woman (sharply): None of the above. I shall be appointing two negotiators to replace those idle tossers Davis and Fox. Our strategy henceforth - created by Sir Lynton Crosby - will be a Rough, Tough, You-looking-at-me-chum Brexit.

Gent: A high risk strategy, is it not Prime Minister?

Woman: Not where my new negotiating team are concerned. Both are financial titans sans pareil. Believe me, they take no prisoners!

Gent: May I ask who they will be, Prime Minister?

Woman: Fred Goodwin...

Gent: Fred-The-Shred?

Woman: The very same. Soon to be ennobled as Lord Lucre of Leith. And my dear friend Sir Philip Green. Any man who owns three ocean-going yachts is a global entrepreneur, in my view.

Bespectacled Man (re-entering the room as the sound of an ambulance siren can be heard from the street below): It's time for your visit to the clinic, Prime Minister.




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So, it's into the Brussels Lions' Den for the vicar's doughty daughter. Flanked by her Praetorian Guard of David ("It's not how it starts, it's how it ends") Davis, Damian Green and the dim-witted ex-MP Gavin Barwell, Mrs May must be wishing that her social diary for this weekend was reading: 'Informal Chequers house party, with representatives of UAE, Quatar and ISIS.'


At least she's decided not to take Bovine Boris along for the trip, after his storming performance on the BBC's PM programme yesterday (Wednesday).

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