by Mr Jacob Rees-Mogg Esquire, member for North East Somerset
9 o’clock. I summon my staff for instruction in the crowded intimacy of my chambers. A few appear to be malingering with bouts of the sniffles and I reiterate that there will be no ‘home-working’ on my watch. Nor masks, as these discourage camaraderie.
I explain that as Albion has thrown off the yoke of Brussels, we may seek out trading opportunities hither and yon in their abundance. Add: “It is truffle season, and you are my pigs. The first to present me with a gilt-edged Brexit opportunity will in turn be presented with this shiny sovereign. Now, to work!”
11 o’clock. My in-tray is empty. A good sign, showing that Brexit is Getting Done without delay. Sharpen my quills and enjoy light repose on my chaise longue until luncheon. Nanny has packed me a hamper of prime tuck – good, English fare. Little sates a man like tongue.
1 o’clock. An opportunity! We have agreed an export deal of volcanic rock from the southern Atlantic archipelago of Tristan Da Cunha – three sacks are already on the way with more to come.
This is a masterful compact which will bring hundreds of guineas to the exchequer. And our shipping fleet will be well employed fetching the rock, lying as it does 2,500 northwest of the Falkland Islands, so the symbolism is indisputable. Alleluia! A fig for the Flemish gnomes!
3 o’clock. In-tray stands proudly empty, as despite exaggerated reports of backlogs at Dover, there are none in my department. Brexit in smooth, clockwork motion. How the Continent must envy us.
5 o’clock. The working day ends, though I have made it known unpaid overtime is a moral duty. Nonetheless two of my minions are injured in the stampede to egress. They are so eager to spread the good word about the Lord’s Brexit and the opportunities it affords that they rush out.
I should not like to dampen that ardour, so I merely dock each of them the day’s pay. And so another glorious day of Brexit concludes. Glory! Alleluia! And God save the Queen!
