Sir Howard Elston, not long out of Belle Isle Open Prison, reports on the latest British balls-up.
Mr Trump
I am sitting in an urbane Westminster bar as I write up my notes following an interview with the new Labour/Tory rebels. They are either craven weaklings who can’t take the heat of party politics or brave pioneers in the new Britain. Take your pick.
They are the independents. And as hunky Chuka Umunna and purse lipped Anna Soubry (late of Central TV) are ferried out a back kitchen door of this discreet boozatorium off a quiet square, they wiggle a fond farewell with ink stained fingers and mouth: “Please speak to Donald.”
In a wide ranging and hot-air infused interview with the twin renegades, they professed little knowledge of leadership “What we need,” said The Chukster as he scratched his perfectly formed bald head, “is a strong armed old pol with an enormous fat bum who can use knobbly elbows and a rancid intelligence to get his way.”
.
My simple solution is Call Don.
I did and via a satellite down the line 121 hush high top secret Whats App link, I chat with The Obese One and… he has promised help.
“Howie,” he bellowed as he burped up the remains of a Big Mac Classic. “Them two dudes need a hand. Hefty lefty Jeremy is a peevish gnome on the garbage heap of history – I quote Trotsky here- Theresa is..well…a bit of a robotic harridan. And that muppet, Vin the Cableguy, is an all-time nobody who switches parties every time he farts.”
Fake Hair.
“I’ll invite them over to whatever city the White House is in,” he offered. He said he would be glad to show purse lipped Anna and hunky Chuckie his fast-food museum tucked near the White House broom closet and his special exhibition of historic miniature black shirt fascists he keeps on his personal dressing table.
“I’m ready to roll,” he said as cheeseburger spittle gurgled down that stupid red tie he hangs from his bloviated neck. “Let’s put the Great back into Uk-ville. I’m your king if you want me.”
Then he hung up, grunting something about Robert Mueller.