Bide-a-Wee

Just when you think the clamour from beyond the political grave has died down, up pop the zombies once again. As if to demonstrate what a big mistake the British people made... when they elected him, Tony Blair turns up like the baddest of pennies with his honest-I’m-not-saying-we-must-have-a-second-referendum-but routine and effectively insists that we should hold a second referendum.

The logic is interesting: The British people are not sophisticated enough, nor well enough informed, he opines, to have made a rational decision to leave. This, of course, completely ignores over forty years of seeing the corruption of the EU and demanding a vote. But, having stated his claim that we are not competent to judge on a big-picture decision, which is pretty much black-or-white, in-or-out, he now demands that we are presented with a far more complex analysis of the ‘deal’, carefully reconsider our positions and vote again; this time to reverse the previous decision.

It is of course, nothing less than the re-booting of Operation Fear, with a bit of revulsion thrown in for good measure. The old people voted the wrong way, they must be made to see the error of their ways. He must think we are senile. But all things come to pass and imagine, if you will, not so many years in the future, in the Bide-a-Wee rest-home for deranged ex-politicians in Strasbourg the Crazy Gang are reunited, a padded cell each ,with regular play time.

EU summit, 2040

Angela Merkel is a bit of a demon in her wheelchair and loves to charge around the nursing home, taking corners on one wheel, and getting up to maximum speed on the long corridors before pulling wheelies in the canteen. Because the poor woman is one apparatchik short of a politburo, the other residents tolerate her, and some of them joined in the fun and games on Angela’s ‘race days’.One such day, Angela is speeding up one corridor when a door opens and Kooky Ken Clarke steps out with his arm outstretched.

“STOP!” he shouts in a firm voice. “Have you got a license for that thing?'

Mrs M fishes around in her handbag, pulls out a Kit Kat wrapper, and flourishes it in front of his face. Ken scrutinises the proffered paperwork, pronounces it proper and waves her on her way. Angela speeds off down the hallway. As she precariously takes the corner near the TV lounge on one wheel, Martin – wild man – Schultz pops out out in front of her. “Halt!” he yells, “You haff proof of insurance?”

Angela digs into her handbag, pulls out a drinks coaster, and holds it up for him to examine. Sergeant Schulz considers it for a moment before nodding and says “Very goot; carry on, Madam Chancellor.”

As Merkel nears the final corner before the front door and freedom, a door opens and Bonkers Blair leaps into view, his bathrobe open and sporting, despite his advancing years, a passable imitation of an erection. Angela stops, eyes up the appendage on display, sighs and cries, “Oh, goot grief, nein. Not ze breathalyser again!'