Now it’s actually done, what about our batter bits?
THE other Friday night, my sleepy parish echoed to the fizz of fireworks, the night canopy glowed with colourful incendiaries.
Brexit, done and dusted, was celebrated with great gusto.
“No more Fritz and Froggies telling us what to do,” swayed the Major, a glass of champers in his hand.
“Now we can get back to doing what made Britain great.”
I gently pointed out coal is no longer mined, the steel industry is all but gone, Japan has beaten us when it comes to motorbike manufacture and shipbuilding sailed west long ago.
“But we still have the rolling fields and rich earth,” he announced while brandishing a “bugger off Brussels” placard.
He recently courted controversy by attempting to gain planning permission for flats on a seven-acre parcel of his own rich earth.
“We still have the fish in the sea,” he added. “Let our shops and markets again be full of British produce.
“And, by God,” he slurred, munching the samosa from the buffet, “we have something they don’t have. We have British determination and ingenuity.
“Look at Mrs Jenkins at the Tea Rooms. Her business was on its knees before she discovered her greatgrandmother’s recipe for bread and butter pudding. Now they’re positively queuing for Ma Jenkins’ Victorian dessert.”
Serenaded by a shambling chorus of Jerusalem, I pondered the wisdom of the Major’s words.
Should there be a global craving for Ma Jenkins’ bread and butter pudding, should it rocket in value to around £3,000 per bowl, should the Continent kowtow to Mrs Jenkins Jnr’s refusal to reveal ingredients, should China develop a taste for bread and butter pudding... we may have this Brexit thing licked.
The 65-year-old could be this country’s unlikely saviour.
It’s more tricky for the Welsh. Treacle and fudge would have to become more sought after than gemstones. Scots can only hope Irn Bru and battered Mars bars catch on.
In 2016, then Prime Minister David Cameron warned that leaving the EU would have grim repercussions.
Surprising. I thought they were what Death sits on.
Those opposed to this island being a part of the European Union seem to have missed one very salient point.
We had no choice. The Romans invaded us.
I’m not a political animal and became thoroughly disenchanted with the whole business after realising it didn’t matter who I voted for – a politician always gets in.
Yet the long, meandering “in” or “out” debate grabbed my attention. On one hand, Boris Johnson, opposing the shackles imposed by the EU, had a point.
On the other, he has a very silly haircut, akin to a badger running amok in a hay bale. Should we put our trust in a man capable of such an hirsute howler? It’s a conundrum.
Thankfully, I had esteemed political writers on hand to grill over the pros and cons of the heated debate.
“For the last time,” one sighed, shaking his head in exasperation, “the EU do not want to straighten our bananas. That was a myth peddled by those with a political agenda against Europe.
“My nan bought one in Tesco,” I pointed out.
“They will not put garlic in Big Macs; they will not force us to wear clogs; they will not ban black puddings; they will not make us drive on the right...”
“Actually,” I interrupted, “I think it was a cucumber.”
“And,” he insisted, “they will not change our currency.”
Shame. I’ve always had a bit of thing for the drachma. I’d really like to pay for a kebab in drachmas.
I have listened intently to the demands made to the EU by Boris and Jeremy Corbyn, and feel they missed a trick.
The populace wanted to know where they stood on batter bits – the congealed scraps left in deep fat fryers that were banned by Brussels bureaucrats.
Never mind immigration, welfare changes and open or closed borders, will our kids again be able to consume the chip shop delicacy?
And will we ever see the day when clingfilmed cheese and onion cobs are again proudly displayed on pub counters? These are the issues that matter. I was also concerned that Brussels was considering preventing prunes being marketed as an aid to bowel movement. As movements go, this was a movement potentially preventing movements.
I tried to look at the bigger picture, but remained wary about pledging an allegiance that has prevented our kids guzzling waste batter, removed our cheese cobs and hidden our laxatives.
My grandfather fought the Germans, which is why he didn’t get to see the 1966 World Cup final despite purchasing a ticket.
He would spin in his urn over the way we have bowed to Continental powerbrokers.
“To think,” he seethed when German warbler Nicole won EuroVision 1982 with Ein bisschen Frieden, “we whupped them in two world wars, now they’re laughing at us.”
Actually, they – and the rest of Europe – were laughing at UK hopefuls Bardo who limped into seventh place with lame ditty One Step Further.