Brexit Bedtime – Fact or Fiction?

You decide!

It was the end of a long parliamentary week. A week of momentous importance for the nation, the week in which the PM had revealed her plans for the future of the nation. The Hon. Member for Ducksborough South, Mr A. Leaver MP had taken a strong stand against what he perceived to be a sellout, a calumny which would see his beloved country tied to the EU and enslaved forever. He loved his country He was passionately patriotic, had served in the army, and had sacrificed years of his life in public service. He was a proud man, proud of his country, proud of its traditions and its long history democracy. Proud of its international standing. He would not, – no he would NEVER allow his nation to remain as a vassal state to a foreign power.  he was to the forefront in the referendum.

And he had said so. In parliament and in private; on the media and in the press. He had taken a strong stand at the PM’s statement in the commons, had been picked by the Speaker to ask a question and had dealt a killer blow that left the PM wincing beneath his excoriating rhetoric. He would fight on, and he would see this traitorous deal done down in the vote.

But the nervous tension, the stress and the endless round of interviews had taken their toll. He was tired, and worn out by the activities of the past few days. He needed, – no he deserved a quiet drink in the bar. He chose a London pub with a quiet and private atmosphere. It was a place he’d only been to on just a few occasions in the past, but he knew it to be somewhere where he could escape from press and parliamentary attention and get an hour or so with his thoughts; a time to think through his strategy and plan his next moves. He purchased a long drink, – and made his way into a quiet secluded booth.

Leaver sat in the subdued light and stared deeply into the foamy golden liquid in front of him, and slowly became aware that someone else had joined him in the booth. Across the wide table sat a man, pleasant looking, but staring at him with a curious expression the MP could not easily read. He was, in essence totally nondescript. He was dressed in a dark suit, no pattern, a white shirt and a dark tie. “He could be an undertaker,” thought the Hon Member.

But he wasn’t an undertaker. In fact he never introduced himself, never took his eyes off Leaver, just slowly pushed a plain brown envelope across the table.

Leaver lifted the envelope with trembling hands. He was a good man, decent and moral, married to a lovely wife, had two beautiful children, Jason and Julia of whom he was immensely proud. One day they too would follow him into a political career.

He opened the envelope. He was well respected in his constituency, and had helped many of his people. They held him in high esteem. He took every opportunity to address the local WI, was on local committees, captained the golf club, ran a clinic to keep in touch with his constituents. Was a man of the people.

He removed the contents. His party selected him for every election. They were pleased with his work and staunchly backed his stand in most of the issues he peruses.

There were photographs. His parliamentary colleagues were his friends; more than just his peers, he was strongly tipped for promotion to a cabinet office even those on the opposite benches thought highly of him.

And there it was. In his trembling hands he held the evidence that would change his life, ruin his marriage, make his children despise him, lower his reputation to the gutter, have him deselected…

It had been just one evening when the sitting in the House had gone on long into the night. Afterwards he’d had too much to drink and she’d appeared at his elbow, all flirty and smiling and tactile. He’d awakened the next morning in a strange bed, in strange surroundings. He’d been appalled, had immediately regretted it, had later learned that she wasn’t the age she’d pretended to be. It was years ago and he’d put it behind him and buried it deep in his memory where everyone that mattered in life could never find it.
But there it was. Right in front of him, in high resolution, in glorious colour, in all its intimate details.

He looked up to the stranger, with the unformed question ‘how’ on his lips. But the stranger was gone. He’d left as silently as he had come. For a split second Leaver thought it had been a dream, the effect of the alcohol hitting his dehydrated brain. But the evidence was in his hands. This was real.

As he sat with head in hand, tears now rolling freely down his cheeks, his phone signalled an incoming message. He glanced at the illuminated display. It was from the Office of the Chief Whip. It simply read, “The PM is confident of your vote.”

And that, children, is how the Battle for Brexit was lost.

Sweet dreams.