Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a ma … I’m an interesting and important character.

I don’t exist, will never exist, yet I lurk in the minds of millions and am discussed and written about constantly.

Most fear me, some worship, only the hardiest, most detached souls are indifferent.

Am I the Devil?

No. As I say, I don’t exist. The Devil might.

And He is not trading at a ridiculously short price in the current betting markets.

Who or what am I then?

Here are some clues – all plucked from the burning bush of recent British politics.

An epoch making Plebiscite was settled on the basis that I don’t really exist and in the shocked aftermath a smooth-as-silver man who was born to rule ceased to do so.

His honest and hapless replacement was felled because she knew for certain I didn’t exist but could not find the right words to say this to those on her side who believed.

The next one was different. Such was apparent from his name. It was one word only.

“Boris” didn’t believe in me either, not for a second, but he summoned me to his cause.

He used me so skilfully that even though I don’t exist I laughed my cotton socks off.

What a player this Boris turned out to be! 

He and his enigmatic sinewy muse played domestic friend and foe alike like a violin.

Those arid euroheads over the water were not fooled but no matter. Pas de point.

They made people here, even quite clever ones like Robert Peston, believe in me.

They positioned me artfully such that everyone imagined they saw my face.

They made people here, even quite clever ones, believe in me.

They positioned me artfully such that everyone imagined they saw my face.

I cheered their friends and terrified their enemies.     

It caused the former to pretend to love Boris and even almost to trust him. 

Caused the latter to don quisling clothes and look suspect in the eyes of the Common Man.

Thus was the schism forced and the desired battle joined – Parliament versus The People!   

Lo, came the election, and B’s inevitable triumph.

His reward for the ruthless perfection of his ambition.

But he still needed me. Oh yes. The Great Man still needed little old moi.

Because without me his European task looks prosaic, its outcome foretold.

All lever arch and gantt. Not a spitfire in sight.

And this is not Boris. It does not suit.

It lacks the edge and the drama that only I can provide.

Even though he knows I don’t exist.

So one more time I am pressed into service.

So one more time I am pressed into service.

My last hurrah since when this year of 2020 is up, my not & never being or happening will be clear to all bar the damp eyed outliers – who might chunter on for a while about me and my charms amongst themselves.

Up here my ears may burn but few on earthly Blighty will care. It will be over. Eye will be over.

But do not pity me. I need no sympathy.

This non existent Construct will weep no non existent tears. I will be happy.

Boris too. He will be VERY happy.

I have served my Master well.

Kinabalu