Mrs Maybe has announced plans for a Festival of Brexit Britain to showcase “what makes our country great today”.
Here are a few suggestions for the most gruesome village fete ever.
Pin the Blame on Nigel Farage. Feel free to have as many goes as you like and do use all available pins.
Guess the weight of the big Brexit lie and estimate the number of fibs in the old sweet jar. The old school bus will also be revived to parade that nostalgic whopper about £350m for the health service.
And guess the weight of Boris Johnson. Be warned that he may off-load his ego for the afternoon. That egomaniacal encumbrance sure weighs a lot, so adjust your calculations accordingly.
In a further attempt to fiddle the figures, or his figure at least, Johnson will lead a jog through a wheat field in a childish bid to get one over on Mrs Maybe, who once said that was the naughtiest thing she’d ever done.
Oh, such modesty, Theresa. You seem to have forgotten all your anti-achievements during those long dull years in the Home Office, including laying the ground for the Windrush scandal – that’s worth a tick in the ‘bad’ column.
The Mansion of Horrors with Jacob Rees-Mogg. Your host will be dressed as the poshest Count Dracula you’ve ever seen. He will lurch out from dark corners to spin tall tales about Europe (just like any other day, then).
Please note, Jeremy Hunt will not be called ‘Count’ at all due to a tendency for his name to be confused with a swear-word that is still socially unacceptable – as is Hunt himself.
To address sins in a past life, Mr Hunt will be manning the first aid tent. He will not be repeating his silly conference speech about the EU being worse than Soviet Russia, as the local philosophical society has told him to read a few history books before he opens his mouth again.
David Davis has volunteered to run the Brexit Roundabout. This will spin very slowly and may well grind to a halt.
Dr Liam Fox – and please don’t forget that ‘Dr’ or he’ll have one of his strops – will run the barbecue. He got a good deal on chlorinated chicken and hormone-riddled burgers from a dodgy mate in the US. “So much better for you than that free-range organic stuff,” he assures us, while making sure not to eat a mouthful himself.
No strawberries, sadly: they’ve all gone rotten in the field after Mrs Maybe cancelled the foreign fruit-pickers.
Defence Secretary Gavin Williamson will take care of the rifle range. He will not tolerate anyone attempting to make a point by shooting themselves in the head, or indeed the foot.
Be aware, though, that Gavin does tend to get a bit carried away. There is also a danger that he might start a village coup with those rifles while droning on about how he’s a Yorkshireman who tells it straight.
As for the drones, Mrs Maybe has banned those from the event. She doesn’t want anyone getting an overall view of the Brexit beano/fiasco, as there is a danger of the awful truth being spotted, and none of us want that revealed.
Any Remainers who wander into the fete will be corralled into a corner to receive an airborne delivery of rotten fruit (there’s a lot of it about, thanks to those departed fruit pickers).
The Tombola stall will have the very attractive prize of a month’s supply of tinned food to see you through the first days of Brexit.
Michael Gove the environment secretary will be on car-parking duties, and his wife, Sarah, had kindly volunteered to write a load of suitably solipsistic words for the local newspaper.
Anyone sharing Tweets showing photographs of zombies turning up for Mrs Maybe’s Festival of Brexit will be given a stern, and indeed very boring, talking to by the woman herself. “I know a lot about zombies,” Mrs Maybe said. And you must admit, she does look awfully pale.