"That was a rather rum do," said Sir Wilfred Heath-Robinson as he sat with his fifth cup of coffee and watched a replay of The Dame's Speech to the Nation last night: "it wasn't what you wrote, Quentin, was it?" and his young PPS shook his head: "she tore mine up and dumped it in the bin, said it was too wishy-washy and she had no intention of taking the blame for the mess Brexit is in – instead she was going to point the finger at the 649 wanwits who were really responsible for the crisis, the Members of the House of Commons, excluding herself! she wanted to let the Country know that she was the only person working to achieve what the Referendum vote decided – I thought then that she had flipped, and the Address last night showed it! she's getting more like Trumpet-Trousers every day, there's a real hamartia in her psychological make-up, creating a situation where she can proclaim herself as the true defender of the Referendum decision fighting the naysayers and traitors of the Commons, tooth and nail and fully prepared to spill blood to get what she says the People want! she has floated an idea, and I use the word floated advisedly, that a flotilla should be sited in the middle of the channel, to create an impenetrable wall, like the one Trumpet-Trousers wants between Mexico and the USA! she's surely certifiably barmy now, do you thing we should call in two doctors to give us a diagnosis, and a couple of Male Nurses with a straight-jacket? putting her in carcarel might be the only way to get things back on an even keel!" but Sir Wilfred was now reading the papers and groaning: "those rascals in the ERG are hoping to get permission for an urgent motion- for all the obeisance she has shown towards them, we all know that they intend to stab her in the back and deep six her, but whenever I try to speak with her about them, she points a finger at me, cries: 'get thee to Milford Haven and shut the doors, they're coming in the window!' you're quite right Quentin, as nutty as a fruit cake, God knows what the Heads of Government at the EU Summit tonight thought about her; oho! talk of the Devil, here comes our Brexit Secretary, welcome Timothy, just the man I want to have a quiet and discreet – not to say, Top Secret – word or two with, and you stay, Quentin, we need to put our three heads together!" and Timothy said: "like the Red Etin of Ireland, he had three heads," but Sir Wilfred only said: "is that so? now look here, Tim, here's the Big Idea that Quentin and I have been working on – it's a Political Improvised Explosive Device and you are just the chap to plant it!"