by Bard Brawl
(a dark clearing, deep in the Bois de Boulogne)
WAROLD HILSON (puffing on a pipe): Let oos join yer cloob and you kin forget all that daft froggie nosh and coom t’ noomber ten fer soom Theakstons an’ sarnies.
GENERAL DE NEZ-LONGUE: Je m’en fou de ton ‘application’. Va t’en!
WAROLD HILSON (knocking his pipe out on a tree that starts to smoulder): Flippin’ ‘eck! Can you tell me the bus to Huyton…or stand me cab fare so I can break this to the lads?
GENERAL DE NEZ-LONGUE: Franc-ly M’sieur, I don’t give a dime.
ADMIRAL HEAD TEETH (erect in the prow of a dinghy with “Moaning Clod” scrawled across the stern in crayon): We shall join them on the beaches; we shall join them in the fiends; we shall join them at the tills. England expects every man to get his booty.
WAROLD HILSON (scrunched uncomfortably in a Dannimac): ‘Ang on!; Ow do we know the lads down the Stoat and Spittoon will wear this?
ADMIRAL HEAD TEETH (turning disdainfully) They’ll be fine once the Costa Packet is stocked with Watney’s and the Germans retreat from the beach towels. This yachtie is not for turning. Now, set sail for Carrefour and our Dunkirk spirits!
(a WW2-era fort, poking out of mudflats om the Thames estuary. A portrait of Churchill with Homburg, cigar and Tommy-gun is peeling off the dank, concrete wall, along with a 2022 calendar. A more recent photo of Bill Cash has many pin-holes and three darts sticking out if it.)
SIR RODNEY-RODNEY FRRENCH-MANCHOT OBE KGB (in Bermuda shorts and mismatched flip-flops) Prime Minister, I’m afraid the Minister of Energy has not returned from his fishing trip.
MARESA THAY: (staring down at her feet) Yes, I do think pumps really suit me.
SIR RODNEY-RODNEY FRRENCH-MANCHOT: As Principal Secretary, I must point out, short of eating what’s left of the Cabinet, there is nothing for dinner, nor has there been since we sold London to the Estonians and the last seven million disgruntled Britons took Irish citizenship. The only egg is on our faces.
MARESA THAY (turning one foot to gain a better look): I really like the kitten heels. I don’t then tower above my subjects.
SIR RODNEY-RODNEY FFRRENCH-MANCHOT: Shall I patch the inflatable so you can row across and pitch your Brexit deal one more time before the candles go out, ma’am?
(Silent pause, then fade slowly to black)