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    The Last Snog before Brexit
    The Last Snog before Brexit
    The Last Snog before Brexit
    Ebook121 pages1 hour

    The Last Snog before Brexit

    By Honest John Clemmeridge

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    About this ebook

    Featuring Brexit as a Much Loved Pie, Brexit as a Cricket Match, The Northerners Lament and much more. This book is a satirical dart gun fired into the fat, rubbery hide of Brexit. The difficulties of the EU Referendum have been re-imagined (and in ways unthinkable to literature or politics!). It's The Last Snog before Brexit - so pucker up!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherXinXii
    Release dateMar 22, 2019
    ISBN9781386663515
    The Last Snog before Brexit

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      Book preview

      The Last Snog before Brexit - Honest John Clemmeridge

      The Last Snog before Brexit

      Honest John Clemmeridge

      Published by Honest John Clemmeridge, 2019.

      This is a work of fiction.

      Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

      THE LAST SNOG BEFORE BREXIT

      First edition. March 19, 2019.

      Copyright © 2019 Honest John Clemmeridge.

      Written by Honest John Clemmeridge.

      E-Book Distribution: XinXii

      www.xinxii.com

      For Mrs Sturrison and her dog Keith

      Table of Contents

      Brexit as a much-loved pie (February 2018)

      Brussels from on high (February 2018)

      Brexit as a Cricket Match (February 2018)

      The Northerner’s Lament (February 2018)

      Brexit as a Stieg Larsson novel

      Some Brexit Balderdash

      A Letter of Encouragement written in March 2019

      A Letter with an unkind image written in March 2019

      Boris Johnson’s Latest Weirdest Dream

      A Nocturnal Reverie

      Brexit is Whatever Spooks your Juices

      An interview with a person largely indifferent to Brexit

      Brexit as a much-loved pie

      (February 2018)

      The serving Foreign Secretary gazed at the oak-panelled door. His stomach was roiling with hunger.

      He was famished.

      Famished, he recalled, was Fame in Latin and Peinasmenos in Greek.

      Everything had worked out swimmingly. He’d managed to drift unnoticed from his downstairs office, closing the door as quietly as he could behind him. Not five short minutes since, there he was on tippy-toes, heading up the marble staircase to the Foreign Office Map Room.

      The Map Room was the one place in the Mothership where he was guaranteed a modicum of privacy.

      It was in the Map Room that the trusted intern would deliver the goods, usually in a ministerial briefcase (one which the Foreign secretary himself had supplied).

      A very satisfying ritual had been established. First, there’d be a gentle tapping at the door and then Randy – of the mincing gait – would enter the room with a friendly smile. He’d place the briefcase on a lacquered table, snap open the locks and then leave.

      The Foreign Secretary would then open the briefcase himself.

      There inside was a brown paper bag. A brown paper bag with the logo Mottison’s Pastry Shop.

      The aroma rising up was like a starting gun for his saliva glands. It would coil about his head and nostrils.

      The wisp of a smile would form on the Foreign Secretary’s lips.

      It was his moment-of-the-day.

      For there, inside the paper bag was a Meat and Potato Pie – a big one.

      The Foreign Secretary had never known a pie like it. It reminded him of the refectory at Eton and of his early days in London, when he sought out any culinary establishment which called itself a Chop House.

      He would love to see the like of John Everett Millais or William Holman Hunt paint the inside of that pie. The warmth it gave off, could they capture that? The iridescent sheen which lay upon the gravy fat, the unctuous sauce which coated every joyous morsel.

      Perfection indeed.

      How the soft, crepuscular glow from the pastry case could restitute one’s day; how what nestled there of fillet steak could all but waylay one’s interest in World Peace!

      The very glugness of the sauce!

      It was astonishing the way that pie would swallow up affairs of State. One might be sat there listening to the President of the United States and yet – for all one’s good intentions – one was hardly listening at all.

      What pie was it that could turn the most powerful man on earth into vymura wallpaper? The President of the United States no less, and there he was transformed into a dull tourist. No better than a chatty pundit in a Chingford betting shop.

      The Pie’s the thing! (Not the play).

      And yet the Foreign secretary had to be on his guard more.

      At times, it seemed quite dangerously close to an obsession. He found himself thinking of Mottison’s Pies in the middle of a Jorhat tea plantation or on a boating lake in Reykjavik. From the back of a safari truck, watching burping lions on the Serengeti Plains, he was often moved to wish for that brown paper bag and its contents.

      One day, in the not-so-distant future, he would eat a Mottison’s Pie on-the-hoof. Indeed, and he would do it just so he could lick his greasy fingers at the end!

      He sighed.

      There was no shame in loving pies so much – or was there?

      Pies had been a staple of the ruling class for long enough. The Map Room, he declared, had seen its share of pies devoured, had it not?

      Why then was he giving orders to a trusted intern to obtain and then deliver such a pie in secret?

      It was, at the very maximum, just four pies a week. Where was the harm? Why was he skulking in the Map Room, waiting for a personable employee to rock up with a pie? Why did he feel as if he was skirting some gigantic elephant trap?

      It was a rum business, he said, but to nobody in particular.

      He drummed his fingers on the chair back.

      He was restless.

      The word restless was Profugus in Latin and (he believed) Anisychos in Greek.

      He gazed across the room. That very fireplace was the same where Wellington and Nelson met for the one-and-only time.

      His stomach rumbled and he sauntered to the window looking down on King Charles Street. He mused there on the origins of this late partiality of his.

      He’d gone to Spitalfields during the campaign for Brexit, to meet the market traders in their bloodied smocks and wellingtons. And then by chance, or by design – he’d never found out which – he’d been directed through a doorway into a shop.

      For a chow-down,

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