Rhubarb master Geoffrey Boycott has entered the Brexitsphere. It isn’t that difficult to Brexit, he says. We won two world wars, after all. I could Brexit with a stick of rhubarb.
“I faced Lillee and Thomson in their pomp, and survived,” boasts Sir Geoffrey. “Aye, those were t’days. Uncovered pitches, no helmets, nothing between yourself and oblivion but your wits and a stick of rhubarb. Everyone’s gone soft since we joined the EU!”
How would the renowned professional Yorkshireman approach Brexit negotiations?
“With a straight bat, of course,” replied Boycott. “Forward defensive, block, block, block. Make them sweat! I’m going to be there all day, and I’m not budging! That’s how we won t’war.”
What if a swift response is required?
“Nothing changes t’way I play,” he answered. “I’m the greatest asset our side has, and they know it! Corridors of power, my foot. Corridor of uncertainty more like!”
How will you respond to questioning?
“I’ll defend t’straight ones,” said Boycott. “Keep my eye on t’ball, and compensate for t’spin those so-called spin doctors use. I played against the best, none of this modern doosra rubbish. And t’bad ones? I’ll just let them sail harmlessly by. That’s what t’backstop is for!”
While not scoring any points off them? Or indeed runs? Is your master plan to bore the EU into submission?
“Now then, now then, there’s no need for those sort of remarks,” said Sir Geoffrey. “They won’t get past me and my stick of rhubarb! They are the ones who will be on t’back foot. Mark my words!”
It’s a compelling argument. The EU, being foreign like, don’t understand cricket. Or the Yorkshire temperament. Or rhubarb. Boycott expects a last-minute capitulation as England snatches victory from the jaws of defeat.
“Of course, if we had picked the right team in the first place, we wouldn’t have been in this mess,” claims Boycott. “Look at the jokers they sent out first. May, Davis, Raab, all rubbish. My grandmother in her pinny could have done better!”
Boycott’s reputation remains eternally untarnished. His intellect, however, is suspect. In the words of the old rhyme:
Yorkshire born
Yorkshire bred
Strong in t’arm
And thick in t’head.