Introduction
The 13 sketches were written during the campaign on the UK Referendum on the EU in 2016, roughly at one per week. References to some of the contemporary news stories, such as the ‘Panama Papers’, may appear obscure to some readers today.
The author has, deliberately, as well as sub-consciously, drawn upon a number of influences in writing this satire, not least the Daily Telegraph’s ‘The Way of the World’ columns, ‘Dad’s Army’, and ‘Allo ‘Allo!’ from the old BBC TV series.
In the tradition of satire, the author has attempted to ridicule both sides in this campaign although being fair-minded wasn’t uppermost in his mind.
The author is particularly grateful for the kind remarks and suggestions from Free Speech Backlash commenters. He’s still looking for a cartoonist.
Part 3
Captain ‘Call-me-Dave’ Cameron bashed the Roleex watch he'd bought from Private Mandelson on the side of his desk and wondered why this, along with everything else today, wasn't working. He'd spent hours poring over the plan which Private Mandelson had also sold him, called "Project Fear", and had been convinced that this dastardly strategy would demolish the British Resistance.
"Threaten them with failed security, failed businesses, rising prices, collapsing banks and anything else that springs to mind." Private Mandelson had told him. "Tell them their beaches, lakes and rivers will be polluted and that their holidays abroad will double in price - that'll rattle them from Bradford to Bournemouth.".
He'd even got Sergeant ‘Mad Dog’ Osborne to line up the whole of the G20 gang in a very expensive Chinese restaurant, ply them with oodles of vintage electric soup, and get them to collectively dribble out a statement saying that everything would go to hell in a handcart if the British Resistance didn't surrender.
On reflection, he wondered if this hadn't sounded rather too much like Private Brown's repeated wail, "Ye're all doomed.", with added hellfire and brimstone, and that, maybe, he'd over-egged the pudding.
Bugger. Resorting to Private Clarke's sister Dolly's remedy of deploying honesty started to appear more attractive. He considered substituting sincerity for honesty and the idea grew on him. A couple of years in PR had shown him that he was second to no man when it came to faking sincerity.
Private "Speccy" Gove's defection to the Resistance still hurt. His prejudices about raising plebs to the inner-circle had been confirmed when he'd read that the Gove excrescence had cast aspersions on his brave and noble efforts to appease both the Resistance and the German Chancellor. Talk about biting the hand etc.. Never trust oiks. They simply…..
He couldn't work out why his creature, the Blond Bombshell, Captain Boris Stauffenberg de Johnson, hadn't either imploded or managed to create mass dissension in the ranks of the Resistance forces yet, either by irritating the hell out of them, or trying to commandeer the biggest bedroom in their barracks and summoning their wives to intimate dinner parties a deux.
Aside from this, Captain Nigel "Bonkers" Farage had kept his head below the parapet for a few days instead of blurting out some madness which would swing Resistance voters to the Remainian camp. Things weren't looking very good.
Vicar Bercow poked his head around the door and looked up at him. "Captain Cameron, I have to speak with you on a matter of some urgency.". Cameron looked down at this sad, diminished representative of the clergy and prepared to listen to his latest complaint about the unfairness of everything over 5' 4" tall.
"I know that you can't control all your men, but I must insist that you order Corporal Corbyn to refrain from holding meetings in the vestry with the unsavoury characters he seems to attract. I'm not sure who they are but I'm convinced that they were saying some very unpleasant things about you and the German Chancellor, and there may have been some Greeks in the room. I'm all for ecumenical exchanges, but some of the things I overheard sounded most intemperate. The words "revolution" and "disarmament" seemed to be shouted and cheered loudly.".
An evil looking smile played around Bercow's thin lips as he related this to Captain Cameron before he turned, reached up for the doorknob, and left the room.
Captain Cameron wondered how much more of this he could take. His eyes fell on a memo which lay on top of the In Tray on his desk. Reading this, he was cast down yet again. His old mentor, Major Michael "Nightly" Howard, had betrayed him.
This was the last straw. He'd have to dig up bloody Winston Churchill and get him onside to halt this reversal! And then he had a thought. He wondered if ‘Fatty’ Soames, Winston's grandson, might be persuaded to resurrect his ancestor and put a few well-chosen retrospective words in his mouth?
‘Fatty’ Soames had at least one of the large ears of The Heir to The Throne, after all. Might he not be persuaded to co-opt his defunct grandpa’s mouth in this great cause? Soames didn’t come cheap, there was a lot of him, but a few lavish dinners in a fine eatery and a peerage might do the trick. Might a sympathetic word or two from the next King not be out of the question?
Captain ‘Call-me-Dave’ Cameron mulled his dynastic options. ‘Dynasty and Destiny’ played around in his confused mind. Taking another large swig of ‘Clan Cameron 25-year-old Malt’ he wandered off to a better, and happier place.
‘Arise, Lord Chipping of Cameron-Norton, your country needs you again!’ The announcement from a diversity-promoted dyslexic, bearded female Herald in The House of Lords melded with images of lots of big-haired sultry females wearing improbably padded shoulders, all swimming into view as he walked along many red carpets, the happy subject of adulation.
It was a happy reverie until Matron grabbed him by the shoulders and shouted at him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re not excused from sports.’….
Life was cruel indeed.