The scene was bleak despite a prior week of sunshine. The clouds were grey …
I was in a back room in [Brighton]. Ethelred Pendragon was having drinks with his campaign staff. Suddenly, his campaign manager leapt to his feet and shouted, “Are you really ready.’
The erstwhile contender for the newly formed riding, Eastcheap-Dropsies gathered himself and looked firm.
This area of London had never voted Tory. But thanks to generous support from a Libertarian, Texas oil billionaire, Aethelred’s campaign has finally taken off.
And then the inevitable question was asked, “Are you really ready? Brexit was a bit of a fiasco. Sure it told the Saxons whose who, or whatever, BUT the Saxons are in Saxony and England trades with everywhere.”
The late-to-the-game Alfred rubs his chin pensively, smiles and says, “I’m one of those politicians who looks to the future.”
“So we’ll rejoin the Union.”
“My future is more metaphorical.”
An assistant whispers into his ear.
“And allegorical.”
“So that’s a ‘yes’, you’re finally ready?
“Ive got to go.”
