Joris Bonson awoke with a start and immediately jumped out of bed. Today was an extremely important day and he had to be on top form because he knew that he’d be under the constant scrutiny of his fellow members, not to mention any Remanian marauders. Before considering the business in hand, Bonson set himself his daily mental work-out. He had devised a long series of IQ tests, comprising complicated word games, complex mathematical problems and other challenging brain exercises. Sadly, these tests were of very little use in enhancing his brain performance because he either knew them all by heart or had them squirrelled away on crib-sheets. Today’s mathematical challenge was to count down in five eighths from one hundred. Easy-peasy! Having peeked at the test the night before, he had craftily written down the answers on his left arm and was thus able to reel the numbers off. He jubilantly awarded himself a score of 300, the highest IQ that ever there was. Whilst congratulating himself fulsomely, he paused for a brief moment to reflect with disdain upon the likely performance of his associates in such IQ tests.
“Contemptable rag-tags,” he muttered.
Just then, his bedroom door flew open and in rushed Grease Bog, in full-on Julius Caesar mode, muttering to himself in very bad Latin. “De omnibus dubitandum,” he roared. (Be suspicious of everything) Bonson, who despite his Etonian education and degree in Classics, remembered not one word of Latin, totally ignored this outburst and addressed Grease Bog in patronising tones.
“Now look sharp old fruit,” he said, “we’ve got a busy day ahead. It’s been one hundred and twenty days since we last attended to this damned Brexit. It’s time to contact those rogues from Brussels a further extension.”
This would be the two hundred and ninety third application for a Brexit extension, all bar four of them made by Bonson himself. The irony of this was that Bonson had once vowed that he would rather lie dead in a ditch than seek an extension to Brexit and Grease Bog lost no opportunity in reminding him of this. Joris Bonson however, was completely unperturbed.
The sorry truth was, that in the matter of Brexit, everyone’s memory had, to some extent, clouded over. Most had only sketchy recollections of the procedure and of what level of significance had once been attached to it. Some, with sharper brains, had clearer memories of Brexit and could accurately identify the exact stage of negotiations that had been arrived at. It was this sector who were prone to re-writing history and exaggerating hugely the importance of their own involvement in the process. Finally, there were the lost souls, many of whom could still be found in the rubble of Westminster Hall, perpetually crossing and re-crossing the floor, for whom the word Brexit was utterly meaningless.
In summary, Brexit was by some, remembered as the antidote devised by great minds, to eradicate the unholy pestilence which had blighted fair Albion, since the long-passed days of the initial dalliance between Great Britain and the former European Economic Community.
By others, Brexit was recalled as a poisoned chalice concocted by ignorant, unprincipled individuals to disperse hostility and loathing.
Alas for the onetime glorious European Union, that mighty axis of power, whose central offices comprised 60 buildings, sprawled across Brussels, with additional headquarters strategically located in Strasbourg and Luxembourg City.
Alas indeed for the EU, for over the years, its objects had been gradually redefined, its responsibilities segmented and its powers eroded, until finally, its representation had been condensed into a small call-centre in Mumbai.
To be continued...
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