LCD Views

Christmas 2022 was a wonderful time. The Prime Minister appeared randomly in West Sussex, Essex, Kent, East Sussex, Kent again and Norfolk (Cornwall was ignored due to the strength of the independence movement there). He was dressed as Father Brexit* and the papers said he ensured all of his children got to see him and make a wish in person. He also greeted carol singers in costume from the doorstep of 10 Downing Street.

Through the late summer and into the autumn there had been rumours of another turkey shortage. These were dispelled when Mr Bunsen held a press conference. He promised the country “There would be adequate supplies of turkeys! Father Brexit promises it!”

The European Union continued in its ill conceived policy of attempting to blackmail the mighty Great British People into adhering to legally binding, international treaties that we had negotiated and signed in bad faith. They were incapable of understanding what British sovereignty means. A position which has hitherto gained them nothing but lost food exports to the UK. More fool them. We were digging for Britain once more!

Get Digging Done!

Once we had made a big enough hole we could work out what to do next.

“It’s amazing what edible plants you can find in alleyways if you really look,” I recall telling my doting wife, in the days before Christmas.

“Is it dear?” she asked.

“Yes. You should go and look. Take a stout stick with you. You never know what you maybe able to beat out of the long grass along the fence lines.”

I was not looking forward to another meal of limp iceberg lettuce and meat of “**no determinable origin“. My distracted wife was serving up poor fare of late. She blamed the empty supermarket shelves, but I worried it was a lack of patriotic fervour.

“Other chap’s wives manage to claw tins of spam from weaker women,” I admonished her, “and you my burly wife have hands like hams! Put them to good use woman!”

However Christmas would bring both surprise and relief.

The Prime Minister was to make his annual address to the nation and tell us how great everything was going. This year we were to receive it through a special gift from the state. A wireless radio. These had been manufactured in North Korea after Commander Trust agreed a secret free trade deal. But we did not know that yet, as it was an “Official Secret” when the radios arrived with a label saying “Made in Hartlepool“.

How my chest swelled with pride to see further evidence of what a fully sovereign, free trading nation could achieve freed of the shackles of Brussels!

The radios were branded “Churchill”, were Union Flag patterned and arrived tuned to The Great British Patriotic Broadcasting Corporation. The documents accompanying them said it was illegal to change the channel. The only time I ever had a cross word with my dear wife was the day she attempted to break that law. It was a regrettable scene. I had to resist reporting her to the Church of Brexit for apostasy.

I had come home for dinner early and I wager that is why I caught her in the unfortunate act. How many times had she previously tried to change the channel? I can not say. I shiver when I ask myself the question.

“Mrs French, your brave soldier is home,” I announced as I entered through the backdoor. I immediately jammed my fingers into my ears to pretend I couldn’t hear her reply. I wanted her to shout hello at me. I wanted to know she was truly thrilled that I was home.

But I could tell immediately things were not going to go smoothly.

Our dinner was planned in advance as a tin of corned beef scrapings, but it lay intact on the cutting board, by a sink full of dirty dishes. A perfect British onion next to the tin, only slightly mouldy and unmolested. A supreme British carrot lying almost to attention next to the onion. I fancy it would have saluted me if it had arms. Last in the display was the bag of government issued “grain replacement” – 100% ground to dusk English oak. If you had a case of the runs it was certain to cure it. I was convinced across The English Channel the woeful Franks had to hold it in and run when some barbarian meal like raw horse gave them a bad belly. We were sensible in England. We cooked our horses.

“Mrs French?” I continued through the kitchen and into the dining room. That is when I caught her at it. Bent over the wireless attempting to move the dial. Her broad British back to me.

She was so intent on wireless treason she did not hear me enter. My fingers fell from my ears. The GBPBC was playing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. I trembled to hear the song. My blood pulsing so hard I heard my heart beat in my head.

“Mrs Mark French!” I exclaimed. “Are you attempting to undermine the expressed will of the people?”

I felt as if I had been stabbed in my chest. It physically hurt to see her like this.

She froze a moment, but then her hands gripped our Churchill. She raised it over her head and turned to face me. She did not speak. Tears lined the rims of her eyes and her lips pulled back like an angry dog to reveal her teeth. This was a useful reminder to put her on the waiting list for our district’s dentist.

She took a single step towards me. I turned and fled. I ran back through the kitchen and out of the door into the yard. None of this made any sense. Then I heard the backdoor open again and waited for whatever was to happen next.

“Please my lubbly hubby. Please come back inside and let’s talk it over? There’s a good pet.”

Ah. She wished to discuss the terms of her surrender. I stiffened my spine and about faced with military precision. She retreated back into the shadows of the kitchen and I entered my castle again.

She was waiting for me by the kitchen table with our Churchill unplugged before her. Such a serious and stout wireless. Its bakelite frame so proud and British.

“Please Mark, give me a chance to prove myself?” she begged suddenly, bending down to rest on one of her knees. This gesture made me more uncomfortable than I can say, even though I could not tell you why.

“I must report you to Cardinal Bogg. You must undergo an ideological examination,” I informed her. This was now an ecumenical matter.

She paled. She shook her head. Suddenly she flattened herself across the linoleum like I had struck her on the back of the head.

“If you report me to the Church of Brexit who will cook your dinner?”

A good point.

“Who will prepare your lunch?”

Perhaps I was being too harsh. It was a first offence.

“And who will have breakfast waiting for you when you get up in the morning?”

Maybe I could buy a wife at the annual wife sales in the market square? There were rumours that fine tradition was to return. But that still meant many weeks of preparing my own food. A dire circumstance. And I have to confess I still loved her, even in that mad moment.

“If I forgive you will you promise me you will never attempt wireless treason again?”

“Oh yes Private French!” She moved to get up.

“Stay down. We have not finished yet.” Although I was already famished and this event had made it worse.

“This is a secret we must carry to our graves. You must never again attempt to change the station. You know saboteurs whisper on the dark wireless? Agents of Brussels!”

“I’m sorry.” She began to cry. Her hands were shaking again. “Please don’t make an example of me. I don’t want to end up like Ms Finch. Paraded through the streets. Branded on the cheek with the Flag of Europe!”

I pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down.

“You may prepare dinner now.”

“Thank you my devoted husband. Thank you.”

“After dinner I will go to the whitemarket and buy superglue. We will fix our Churchill’s dials to the patriotic spot. We will ensure this horrifying crime can never be repeated.”

She climbed to her feet. Such a lumpy thing she was. All breasts and hips. Thighs and cheeks. She wiped her palms on her apron. Smoothed her greying hair back from her tear streaked cheeks.

“You’re lucky to have me. Mr Finch did not waver yesterday when he caught Ms Finch do just this. But then his sister has always been suspect. Her punishment is to be public. I would prefer your punishments always remained private.”

She nodded and picked up the tin of spam scrapings.

“Now then. Let’s make the lettuce dumplings,” she said and set to work. Once more the proud patriot’s wife.

*Father Brexit is just Father Christmas rebranded, but the people approve. A poll by NoGov showed the approval held steady at 98%.

**Meat of no determinable origin is just as good as meat of determinable origin. To claim otherwise is a thought crime.

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.