The greatest British potato was born and raised in a loamy field located in Uxbridge and South Ruislip, before the war. It was red, white and blue in colour. Not just the skin but the interior too. It was recognised as a miracle by Prime Minister Bunsen and his son, who discovered it while walking late one afternoon.
Prior to the discovery of the holy tuber the field was already a celebrated point on the national map.
“Each time Prime Minister Bunsen celebrates a new marriage with a new child he brings the boy here,” patriotic parents would tell their children in reverent tones, as they walked along the perimeter of the gated field.
“You there! Keep moving!” The private security would bark at lingering pedestrians. They would smile and wave, knowing that it was all for show, in case anyone from Brussels was watching.
The reliable history says the Prime Minister spied the potato plant first next to a stand of English roses. He said to his son, “Look Barnaby! It’s a classic British potato plant! And in a field of English roses too! This is indeed sacred ground.”
At that moment a ray of British sunlight touched on the very spot and the plant’s green leaves “transmuted into gold”.
Barnaby’s intellectual power was noted from birth, and his artistic ability. He released his father’s hand and tottered to the potato plant.
“It a King Edward po-ta-to Pappa,” the boy identified the variety.
He next gripped the plant by the stem with his tiny hand and pulled it from the blessed soil with one heave. Displaying a strength beyond his tender years. Dangling from the exposed roots was the patriotic potato.
Barnaby studied the heavenly tuber and made the immortal declaration, “This…a mir-acle Pappa! A mir-acle! It is Union Flag pattern!”
The Prime Minister is recorded (in his own reliable memoirs) as falling to his knees and hugging both Barnaby and the potato tight.
“Barnaby, this is a sign from God,” he said, raising his eyes to the heavens. “This potato will be a symbol of the divinity of the will of the people from this day and for one thousand years to come.”
The potato was carried home by father and son where both the boy’s mother and the Prime Minister’s next wife were struck “dumb with wonder” at the sight.
The Prime Minister further records the distinct feeling of a divine presence accompanying them on the walk, as if the “Holy Ghost Winston himself had arrived to be our shield and staff”. The potato was later moved to the Tower of London, replacing the replica crown jewels on public display and an annual Spitfire fly past performed to honour the discovery.
“The divine potato is just one of the many reasons we have to invade London,” I would remind my wife daily when we sat down to lunch. “How can we allow the traitors to possess one of the holiest of Brexit relics?”
“It’s terrible my little Churchill,” she would reply. “Now, don’t let the gammon go cold. It will play havoc with your false teeth if it stiffens.”
London. London. London was the source of treason. London with its shining towers of glass paid for by the sweat of the noble men who toiled in the soft fruit fields outside of its walls. London with its flags of Europe hanging from balconies. A city so lost it had once floated an inflatable of the last truly great American, Donald Drumpf, in a nappy over the streets.
“When I get to London I am going to paint the pavements red, white and blue. Just like the holy potato!” I would promise my wife. “You will know that although I am far from home I am beating patriotism into the great Satan.”
She would smile in quiet satisfaction and say something like, “Eat your plum pudding before that blowfly crawls all over it again. It lingered so long last time you got excited I worried it had laid an egg.”
The air was thick with conspiracies in London even before its Unilateral Declaration of Independence and Union with Free Scotland. Before the English Civil War part two. People with European flag badges spoke in dark corners, seeking ways to overturn the overwhelming mandate delivered by the people in 2016. What was the occasional bare supermarket shelf when you have your sovereignty?
“In London they conspire to undermine the will of the people,” I would inform my goodly wife at breakfast. “You can tell who is a spy for Brussels by how tanned their skin is. Who goes to the Continent except for traitors? The British tourism industry needs those pounds, shillings and pence at home!”
“Don’t let your porridge go cold poppet,” she would reply. “You know how disagreeable you find it when it goes all lumpy.”
All bad things began in London. But the war would end there when we razed the glass towers to the ground, praying that the glass was safety glass. The Prime Minister would lead his loyal flock in holy procession from Chequers and back into 10 Downing Street. The patriotic potato would be safe again.