The Lady of the Lake may have been deported because she failed to apply for Settled Status in a timely fashion, but the mythical forces which guard Britannia are still within the bones of our native soils.
Who will toil the God drenched soils is a problem for another day, the EU workforce who once had the honour having been sent home by pings from an overactive pandemic app. But Britons need not worry, the magical blood that has made our island the envy of the entire world still courses through our brassicas.
Clearly the poet King Boris is now so deranged by repetition of his own irrational verses that he can no longer be looked to lead the country into its next golden age. He has become Mordred. Who then will knife in the back the contenders, come to the fore, his arm raised high with his mighty fist clenching the handle of Excalibur?
There is only one name worthy of consideration, although the pretenders to the throne will be multitudinous. Raab will appear out of the mist one morning with his clumpen helmet unable to conceal the thud of his right temple vein. He will not be able to pull the sword from the stone. He will fall to the side exhausted and confused. Truss will descend from the rain heavy nimbus holding a burning parchment she declares a national contract worth sighing, but she have no ink in her quill. And on it will go, as they step up to the charmed boulder and find themselves insufficient to the task.
There is only one knight amongst the boastful host with the ethereal power required for the challenges of today. This is because today does not require the brute force of a Rishi prancing before the court on his inheritance stallion. No. Today’s battle requires a seasoned warrior who can take any word and twist the meaning of it so severely it will never recover. Merlin would be envious if he ever heard our saviour interviewed. The incantations of power delivered in such soothing tones. What magic is this?
We speak of course of Michael Gove. He is missing at the moment but that is only because he is preparing to return when the hour is darkest and make it darker still.
Do not fear the future of our hallowed masses. The fat, dishevelled blonde with his hair dye and his gags will not be the one who has to captain us through the thicket of fate.
Step forth from the shadows that conceal you Michael Gove and bring those shadows with you. Britannia awaits and it waits to be Great again!
