#8 The Book of John - A People's Hard Brexit

28 Oct 2016

“So let’s go over this one more time. Access to the single market is dependent on...?”

 

“Membership of the EU. Like I said on the Today Programme.”

 

“No...” Kate sighed.

 

“Look we’re not going to agree. If it wasn’t for the EU with their state aid rules, the miners would have won.”

 

We didn’t seem to be getting very far. I suggested that we have some time out, and Kate went out to make some tea. I was feeling a little drowsy, I’d not had much sleep after a branch meeting that finished in the early hours of the morning.

 

That wasn’t the reason for my lack of sleep however. Branch having finished earlier than usual, we decided to head back to the campaign officer’s warehouse digs and made cool memes mocking white people and their dreadlocks.

 

Anyway back to the Shadow Sith Lord Chancellor.

 

At first he was hardly heard, as quiet as a sickle swishing - just with his clothes kept on - and somewhat less of a sexual predator than Poldark.

 

He never missed a meeting. I know that back in the wilderness years of 1997-2007, Flash Gordon was the real decision maker too - but this was different.

 

Kate said as much recently.

 

“Have you noticed that book he carries around with him all the time?”

 

“The little red one?”

 

“No” - She chuckled. “The little black one. It has a list of names in it - but also quotes, teachings, phrases. He calls it The book of John.”

 

Then the pre-meets with Sean Miller our Director of non-Portland Communications and PR (Proletariat Relations, not the other thing) began. On top of that, he started bringing members, oh Freudian slip dear diary, I mean “supporters”, of various groups.

 

Sometimes I felt like I was back at a Constituency Labour Party meeting, just with more shouting and abuse. One of John’s aides keeps talking about how “the farmer sows the grain, we sow knowledge”.

 

Kate took me out of my trance as she appeared with our tea.

 

“Any chance of some sugar?” John asked. I swear he gets more scouse by the day.

 

We laughed uproariously.

 

“Any napkins?” Kate added, wiping tears away as she struggled to draw breath.

 

I remember the last time someone used a tissue to wipe their nose and then discarded it on the coffee table, thinking that no-one was looking (we don’t have rubbish bins in the office).

 

He got a warning; though I went to great pains to inform him that if the chief had seen that he hadn’t used the communal tea towels knitted by North Islington knitters against austerity to wipe his nose, he would have been out on his oversized emo earlobes.

 


 

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