I am enjoying the comments from FSB readers and have had quite a few useful suggestions which I’ll be considering in my next edit. I’ve changed the title following one such suggestion.
The idea is to get this published for the 10th anniversary of the Referendum next year.
I’m still in need of a pen and ink cartoonist and if you happen to know of somebody who fits that bill I’d be very grateful for a referral!
Parts 6 and 7, being a little shorter than others, are both offered today.
Brexit Redux - Life in The Bunker
Part 6
Captain ‘Call-me-Dave’ Cameron couldn't believe his luck. Just when things had looked about as grim as they could possibly be, he'd been awarded a triumph by his allies in Brussels HQ. It was almost unbelievable, and he savoured the rare taste of pure joy in the certain knowledge of both vindication and victory. Ha, two "V"s!
It had, on the whole, been a pretty rotten couple of weeks and his Remainian forces had taken a bit of a battering. Supplies of pointed metal sticks were threatened because some bastard had decided to shut down the last Remainian foundry. It wasn't his foundry and didn't even belong to anybody he knew. If it had been wallpaper, he knew that what was left of Sergeant Osborne could deliver, but it wasn't. It seemed that some foreign Johnnie A had bought the foundry in a sale a few years back and then some other foreign Johnnie B, had cocked things up and managed to over-supply the market which had left foreign Johnnie A, up a gumtree with pointed metal sticks at roughly 10 times the market price and massive power bills for the foreseeable. This last bit was also a puzzle as he'd agreed with foreign Johnnie B, that, when he wasn't buggering about with the pointed metal stick market, he would supply the energy for all the Remainian needs, albeit at an astronomical cost to all and sundry, after he himself headed off to a well-earned retirement.
As if this wasn't bad enough, Corporal Corbyn had come out of his habitual torpor and seemed galvanised by the whole pointed metal stick business and the hordes of soon to be unemployed Remainians who might defect. If only he had been ‘galvanised’ properly earlier.
Major Nigel "Bonkers" Farage had popped up in a pub and started blaming Captain Cameron's chums in Brussels HQ for the failed foundry, and said it'd been another Remainian, Private “Loopy” Miliband's bloody silly idea to ramp up all the energy prices in the first place.
Just when he'd thought things couldn't get any worse, he'd had a solitary wander around the perimeter of the Remainian camp just after sunset. He'd needed a little peace and tranquillity. He'd calmed down, and felt that he could deal with these travails and the outrageous thingies of fortune. And then it had happened. Before him was the ghost of his dead Dad.
"Beware Panama my son!". Captain Cameron had frozen. "I never watch the bloody programme! It's run by lefty BBC bastards.". He'd cried.
"No, no! Beware Panama – the Papers!”. The spectral vision repeated before floating off into the crepuscular mist.
Captain Cameron made a note to check his collection of hats for use in photo opportunities during the summer months.
An uneasy sleep had been interrupted by the deafening blast of shells destroying the walls of the Remainian redoubt. Private Grayling and Matron May had burst into his quarters, almost incoherent with fright, or glee. "Sorry to report sir, but you've taken a direct hit.". Captain Cameron noted the use of the singular pronoun. "What the hell's been going on?". Suppressing their trembles. Grayling and May reported the news of the Panama Papers strike which had occurred.
"It's a bomb like no other Captain." said Grayling barely able to control his emotions. "And we suspect that this is just the beginning." chortled Matron May. "The big one is right under your bunk and could go off at any time.".
Sending for the bomb disposal squad, Captain Cameron pondered his fate. It looked pretty bloody grim, and he hesitated to take the next step. Gritting his teeth, and stiffening the remaining sinews, he picked up the phone.
"Monsieur Juncker s'il vous plait? C'est his ami David qui est calling?". The moments passed. An hour passed. "Ah! Jean-Claude! Quel relief de vous parler. Je need a grand favour et je promise that tout will be excellent dans le future. Oui, oui, je sais that je promised la meme chose before. Now, do you remember that favour you did pour moi on les tampons et le material de insulation de houses VAT? Ah! Oui, very amusant, ha, ha! The women of Britain are very grateful. Je would like vous to announce que la Commission will consider la possibility of exempting un few other things. Non, non. Je don't expect you to actually change anything. Je require only a statement from vous announcing that the Commission is considering this. OK? Ah merci Jean-Claude!".
Capitaine Cameron knew he was back in the game. Who said that reforming the European Commission was impossible!
The humiliation of the last few days had rendered Captain ‘Call-me-Dave’ Cameron almost incapable of any action at all. The vain attempts of Matron May and, the now disabled Sergeant Osborne, to bring a smile to his once happy, shiny, features had been fruitless. Being forced by his so-called allies in the Remainian Army to unbelt on the treasured secrets of the Clan Cameron investments to the whole world had been unbearable.
Was it for this that he'd sacrificed an unpromising career in PR with a now defunct television company? Where would this madness end? Would he be forced to disclose the very secrets of his father-in-law's wealth? And what of his legacy? Captain Cameron, albeit quite a young commanding officer, was very driven by the idea of a grandiose legacy, and he'd studied the works of the man they called "The Magician".
He desperately wanted a "legacy" before he was 50. He wanted to be better at this than the fabled, magical, Captain ‘Paul’ Tony Blair and his assistant, the ‘lovely’ Cherie McGee with her ruby-red letterbox lips. Now there was a legacy worth fighting for. Untold millions combined with delusional worldwide respect, apart from at home.
He was, however, stuck in the crater which was the Remainian HQ since the Panama Papers bomb had landed and he couldn't yet see how to extricate himself from this. If only he could get some consolation from the misery of his opponents. Maybe this would cheer him? He knew he had all the files on the disreputable behaviour of Privates Benn and the ‘Miliband of Brothers' father's inheritance tax avoidance, not to mention the BBC, The Guardian and the Daily Mirror's offshore tax shenanigans, but the bugger of it was that they were all on his side! Blowing all those bastards up would be jolly good fun, but it would result in him being even further from his legacy than ever. "Bite your bottom lip, or ankle." his father had told him. Wise words, he reflected.
Some distance away Captain Nigel "Bonkers" Farage had been sedated. The other officers of the British Resistance had paid a passing, underpaid, Junior Doctor of some 45 years of age, to inject him with a few mils of happy juice, prior to telling him of the coup which had removed him from the leadership of the British Resistance. Mixed with his daily consumption of several gallons of British Resistance "Bulldog Brewery's Extra Special Spitfire Ale" it was, rightly assumed, that he would be malleable. He was as malleable as a nearly extinct crested amphibian.
It was thus that Captain Nigel "Bonkers" Farage addressed the British Resistance troops the next day and announced that he was happy to see Private "Speccy" Gove "rolly" the ‘farces’ to fight to the last "pob" against the "Russians".
Captain Cameron watched this on the Remainian TV service, the RBC. It was reasonably good news, he thought, but he knew that, not for the first time, he was missing something.
At this point Private Mandelson shimmered into his view, as if from nowhere. Try as he might, Captain Cameron could never quite get used to the occasional appearances of this ephemeral, yet strangely powerful, soldier in the Remainian Forces. What did he have to gain by applying his ancient and dark arts to Captain Cameron's quest for victory he wondered, apart from another huge pension?
"I can reveal an unspeakably devious strategy, Sir." spoke Private Mandelson as he coiled into the armchair facing Captain Cameron, lit a small cigar and fixed his victim with a steely, hypnotic gaze. "It will surprise and stun huge numbers of your opponents. You shall have your legacy, minus my 10%.". Cameron acquiesced, listened and dozed off.
Corporal Corbyn was still trying to work out what the hell he'd been drinking at his 96th birthday party last September. Things hadn't improved at all. It was all a bit of a hazy recollection. People were still shouting at him and being unpleasant some of the time and insufferably ingratiating the rest of the time. He'd had some bloody strange hallucinations, and they were unsettling, to say the least. This one was the worst of all.
"I am here to tell you that I am absolutely and unconditionally supporting Captain Cameron and the Remainian Forces in their campaign to defeat the British Resistance. I know I may have given the impression that my expressed views, in the last four decades, may have given you a different impression, but I am certain that all references to these will have been removed from any, and all, of my files very soon.".
If only he could wake up from this ghastly nightmare and find himself back behind the counter of his cherished little bookshop, selling old platitudes and archaic political pamphlets.