The Norman Tebbit Arena, Greenwich
‘I’M A REASONABLE MAN, and you’re all decent people,’ declares Ronnie Outlander. ‘I know some of you feel short-changed. You think we haven’t gone far enough to repel the threat on our borders. And you know what? Frankly, I agree. Tonight, I’m going to tell you just what I propose to do about it.’
Three thousand Mighty Blighty delegates gaze rapturously up at their leader on the podium. Behind him, the slogan “You Picks, You Chooses” flashes in 20-foot-high letters on the screen, reminding them just how far they have come.
The party is holding its annual convention in the Norman Tebbit Arena, formerly the O2 Centre, which now resembles a Munich beer hall during Oktoberfest. Blonde and buxom pigtailed waitresses ferry trays of lager and bitter up and down the aisles. The fug of tobacco smoke is so thick that the shrill figure of the leader is almost obscured from row C onwards.
The delegates have been promised the abolition of all duties levied on alcohol and tobacco, the restoration of the 37 shires that divided England before the Norman conquest, and the imposition of New Model English on all places of learning, newspapers and official documents. They have listened with understandable smugness to messages of support from the President of Colombia, the Supreme Leader of North Korea, and Marine Le Pen. Spokespersons for the Swedish Democrats and the Hungarian Jobbik party have further bolstered their self-esteem by applauding their splendid isolation. A point rammed home in the final broadcast by President Trump, who, after declaring deep love for them in a speech laced with folksy homilies, pledges military aid and a new Marshall Plan.
The delegates greet this with deafening applause, a stamping of feet and an ear-splitting roar. The more reflective blink in disbelief at their transformation from eccentric outsiders to the dominant force in English politics. Yet rumours have circulated all evening that Outlander has up his sleeve a measure so radical, so far-reaching, that it will provide a fitting climax to the convention and, indeed, their entire crusade. Adept at playing to the gallery, Outlander milks the suspense, taking a deep swig of his pint and lighting his fifth Senior Service of the evening. Then he speaks:
‘We’re still not safe, so we’re going to borrow a trick from our American cousins. We’re going to build a wall around England.’
The hall erupts with wild cheers and whistles as a map of the country appears on the giant screen opposite the podium. A virtual wall begins to snake northwards from Dover along the coast to Margate, Great Yarmouth, and Skegness. But then it comes to an abrupt halt at Grimsby, which elicits disappointed gasps from the audience.
‘You know why it’s stopped,’ says Outlander. ‘Because hundreds of years ago there was this bloke called Adrian. Poncy name, I know, but Adrian was one of us and should be venerated as a founding father. He built a wall with Scotland, starting at Solway Firth in the West, and that’s the one we’re going to follow.’
The line starts moving again, westwards, till it meets the Tyne, then veers south, taking in Liverpool and following the border with Wales. After Bristol, it cuts south to Weymouth, compliant with the frontier set by the Pagan Confederacy of the West. Finally, it streaks east to unite with its only begetter at Dover.
‘There you have it!’ The full-throated acclamation coming from the arena almost drowns out the leader. ‘The Great Wall of England! That will give the Chinks a run for their money.’ He flaps his hands for quiet. ‘Some may see a 40-foot-high wall with barbed wire, searchlights and machine guns bristling on its battlements as a blot on the coastline. But just imagine the garden we can make of England. Entirely self-sufficient, no need for a grain of rice or a tea leaf from Johnny Foreigner, making bangers and bacon sarnies from our loyal pigs, fags from good Wiltshire baccy, and beer from luscious Kent hops.’
Drumming fills the arena as delegates bang their Toby Jugs against the armrests, speckling each other with more froth than is coming from the podium.
‘Just think of the jobs that will be created! I reckon we’ll need at least a million labourers to build the thing, not to mention the hundreds of thousands toiling in factories to produce bricks, barbed wire and mortar. We’ll absolutely require legions of guards to patrol it, kennel keepers to look after the Rottweilers, not to mention vets, caterers, laundry workers, bed makers, comfort women, locksmiths! Do I really need to go on?’
The fervour of his audience exceeds all previously known boundaries. People are fainting. There is a heart attack or two. Outlander steps back from the microphone and clasps his hands triumphantly above his head. Brünnhilde Mist strides onto the stage, dressed as Britannia with a trident, shield and Corinthian helmet. Her loose white robes do little to conceal her mountainous breasts as she launches into “Jerusalem”:
And did zose feet in ancient time
Valk upon England’s mountains green?
And vas the Holy Lamb of Gott
On Englund’s pleasant pastures zeen?
Adding his own warble to the audience’s rousing sing-along, Outlander glides to the wings and thus to his dressing room, where he enjoys another fag and a well-deserved snifter. These last well into “Zere’ll Alvays Be ein Englund”, which constitutes the grand finale. Ten minutes later, as the rustle of the delegates exiting the hall dies away, there is a tapping at the door. Outlander opens it. His eyes nearly pop from their sockets as he contemplates Brünnhilde’s breathtaking twin peaks.
‘Can I enter?’ enquires the German diva.
‘Oh, can I? Excuse me, I am quite forgetting myself. Can I offer you a snifter?’
‘Champagne?’
‘I just might, as long as you promise to keep it to yourself.’ He taps his nose. ‘Nudge, nudge and all that.’
There is a minibar alongside the dressing table. He opens it and removes a pint-sized bottle of Pol Roger. The cork pops with a flamboyant bang. Brünnhilde takes a greedy gulp.
‘It’s been so long.’
‘I expect you haven’t had any fizz for yonks as well.’ Outlander flashes his pearly dentures.
‘Tonight you vere wunderbar. Aldi volk adore you!’
The same thought had crossed Outlander’s mind. She was standing uncomfortably close. Her alpine bosom shimmied as she took another gulp. Outlander’s gaze strayed to her midriff. He wondered what delights lay in wait beneath the silky lagoons of her robe.
‘More champers?’ He refilled their glasses with their different tinctures.
‘May I tell you a lidl secret? Ven I drink Champagne I long for currywurst.’
‘None of that to hand, I’m afraid.’
‘Bratwurst? Blutwurst? Kochwurst? ’
‘You’re making me quite hot under the collar. Tell you what! I have got a good British banger with oodles of mustard.’
A short while later, Brünnhilde climbed the scales from contralto to soprano, while Outlander wobbled wildly between bass and tenor, producing a markedly dissonant counterpoint. Both performers were happily tone deaf, however, and the diva climaxed with a long, head-bursting note that shattered every windowpane on the west wing of the Norman Tebbit Arena.
