Hail the glorious day of liberation. From this day on, 29 March will be known as Article 50 Day, when it will be compulsory to dance in a fountain, and Tottenham Court Road will be renamed David Davis Place, and we’ll give each other gifts that we’ll wrap and leave under a huge black pudding and children will excitedly ask: “What am I getting for Article 50 Day, what am I getting for Article 50 Day?”, while old people complain that adverts for Article 50 Day start in the first week of February.
In the afternoon we shall feast on liver bought by the ounce, and put some foreigners in a huge tub, and whichever one gets pulled out first by a blindfolded Boris Johnson will be paraded before the crowd, gathered under a statue of Michael Gove, and we’ll all sing the new National Anthem, that will go: “If you’re from an EU court, in some poxy Baltic port, your verdict counts for nought, ‘cos we’re British and we fought, for the freedom to deport who we’ll f***ing well deport.”
Then they’ll be taken to Folkestone and put on a raft.
There will be a 90ft high commemorative bendy banana for children to slide down in Liam Fox Park, and at noon a 21-gun salute from Dover Castle will fire cups of beef dripping at the French.
Because history will now regard the great figures who dedicated their lives to creating their nation as Garibaldi, Gandhi, Nelson Mandela and Chris Grayling.
The Great Repeal Bill, rightly sounding as grand as Abraham Lincoln’s law abolishing slavery, will be full of language like: “This truth shall evermore be stated, that from this noble day, a nation arose in magnificence to grasp the light of the heavens and tear away the hideous chains of being unable to negotiate a separate agreement on spring onions with Canada.”
In the evening, vicars will stand before their congregation at a thanksgiving service and cry from the pulpit: “We have been REDEEMED by Article 50!” And 17 people with an average age of 87 will shout back: “THANK you, Jesus!”
Eventually Article 50 will be thought of as a holy scripture itself. Anyone appearing in court will have to swear by Article 50 to tell the truth, the whole truth, and so much truth it could fill the side of a bus.
Schoolchildren will have to close their eyes every morning in assembly and recite it, and anyone saying, “I hereby notify the European Council in accordance” with insufficient enthusiasm will be dragged to the headmaster and clouted round the ear, which will be legal again now that Brussels can’t meddle in our values.
If you think leaving the EU is a bit of a shame, you’ll have “Remoaner” painted on your door, and every year on Article 50 Day you must walk through Douglas Carswell Avenue dressed as a Belgian while citizens throw fireworks at you, which won’t even be deemed dangerous as health and safety laws were all burned in a ceremony shown live on BBC One hosted by David Starkey.
Because we’ve got our country back and at last it’s in the hands of the common man. Instead of having to defer to elites, our decisions are made by characters such as Boris “One of Our Own” Johnson. He may disappear for a few hours during Brexit negotiations, to nip down the bookies and put a score on the dogs, but that’s because he’s down-to-earth Boris, from the spit and sawdust wing of the Bullingdon Club.
This triumph for the common sort is why Rupert “Never Off the Dartboard” Murdoch is delighted. The Sun is jubilant, because it represents the normal everyday people, which is why it’s especially popular in traditional working class cities like Liverpool.
David Davis and Theresa May assured us we’ll be in a stronger position with the EU now than we were as members. That should work, because most institutions give you more favours if you’re not a member.
Supermarkets ask: “Do you have a loyalty card?” If you say, “Yes”, they squirt carpet cleaner in your eye, but if you say, “No”, they give you a free bucket of fresh salmon.
If you join a gentlemen’s club and pay a membership fee, they don’t let you through the door. If you ask why, they say: “Because the regulations are, sir, that in order to be permitted entry, you must call us a bunch of whining knobs for 30 years and then leave, announcing this is the happiest day of your life.”
Now we’ve ensured the EU countries will be even more eager to help us out, because we’ve told them straight away we’ll help them fight terror “so long as we keep free trade”.
That sounds like a fair deal. If you agree to help someone fight terrorism without making sure there’s a few bob in it, you’re being a fool to yourself.
If we’ve got information on some crackpots preparing to stroll through Dusseldorf gunning down everyone in a shopping mall, why should we bother telling the Germans unless they’re prepared to scrap proposed tariffs on weed-killer and cotton buds?
So let’s celebrate our new freedom. Let every boy born in 2017 be called Nigel. Let’s dance through the night every 29 March, because now no one can tell us what to do. We’ve smashed open our chains and won the liberty to rule ourselves, no longer dominated by anyone, free to say: “Please Mr Trump, we’ll do anything, we’re desperate, we’ve got to sell something to someone, whatever you say sir, whatever you say.”