An everyday tale of Westminster folk.
“’Ere, Boris, you stay out of trouble, d’yer ‘ear me!” shouted Theresa at her wayward son. “And stop draggin’ little Michael into yer dodgy business!”
“I’m goin’ to make you proud of me, mum!” promised Boris, fingers crossed behind his back. He shambled out of the house, with little Michael in his wake. “’Ere, Mikey, let’s see wot Nigel is floggin’ dahn the market today.”
“Sovereignty! Sovereignty! Get yer sovereignty ‘ere!” called wide-boy Nigel, handing out purple-and-yellow flags. “Blue passports, almost as good as the red ones but cheaper! Oi, Mustapha, get yer filthy mockers off my sovereignty! Be off wiv yer!”
“Morning, Nige,” said Boris. “’Ow do yer fancy goin’ into partnership? I’ve been floggin’ dodgy goods for years. It’s the best game in the world, innit!” Michael nodded eagerly.
“Yeah, we could make a killin’!” agreed Nigel. “Let’s frash aht the details over a pint in the King Dick.” Arron, the landlord of the imposing Victorian pub, The King Richard, was just opening up.
“’Ey, Jeremy, mind the stall fer us fer a bit will yer? Ta,” shouted Boris to his loveable loser of a cousin. “Free pints of Bilge please, Arron.”
“Nuffin’ dodgy in this joint today, boys,” warned Arron, pouring the beer. “Not unless yer give me a cut!”
“Yer on!” said Boris. “’Ere, Arron, wot King is this pub named after?”
“The Lion’eart, innit,” replied Arron. “’E went off crusadin’, duffin’ up lots of forriners in the name of Saint George, bless ‘im. Nah, wot’s the plan?”
“I got all this sovereignty, right, and blue passports and stuff dahn the lock-up,” confided Nigel. “I’m sellin’ Ingerland by the paahnd!”
The door burst open. In strode Theresa, hair awry and eyes blazing. “Oi, Boris, wot did I tell yer?” she yelled. “Get back in the ‘ouse right now! Michael, I’m ashamed of yer, ‘angin’ round wiv this bunch of crooks. ‘Ome! Now!”
“Nah, not comin’,” said Boris. “’Ere, missus, ‘ave a flag and some free sovereignty!” added Nigel. “And tell that useless toerag Jeremy to close up the stall for us, ta!”
Theresa stumbled out again, wondering what she had done wrong, raising a couple of villains.
Drums. Theme tune. More of the same every flippin’ night until you believe it’s for real.