And while in 1914 the émigrés were spending their third day facing the German level crossing, where the two armies still seemed to be passing each other, marching north and south between the gates that blocked the railway lines, with three trains queued behind their own and another four visible on the far side, just disappearing out of sight beyond the trees – although it might have easily been in a parallel universe – late last night, down in the crypt beneath the Palace of Westminster, in the infamous Floozies' Bar, the three Conservative Members of Parliament for the Beddingshire Constituencies - (North) Sir Pompus MacFarlane, (Mid) Mr Digby Doubleday (and South) Ms Natalie Rhombus – were drinking to the Good Health of the new PM and Confusion to his enemies, and Natalie was saying: "of course he's got a Plan, and a very cunning one if you ask me," which raised Sir Pompus' eyebrows – one far higher than the other – and he chortled: "not on your Nellie Duff, my dear girl, it's The Wraith wot's got the Plan, old Boffer's never had a Plan in his puff, and saying he wants to unite the country, that's a laugh, nothing esemplastic about Boffer!" at which Digby looked askance, as only he could: "a waif? a ghost? in Number 10 – have you seen it Sir P?" which brought a withering look to the Elder Statesman's tanned features, and he snorted: "it's not a bloody ghost, Diggers, it's that Domino Compost, you idiot!" and Digby took a gulp of his beer, belched and said "aaaah, gotcha, Sir P, the Strategy Supremo, well he did bloody good with Rats Vote Leave, if anyone can get Boffer out of the shit, he's yer man," and leered at Natalie: "how bout you, Nat, ever done the old horizontal Tango with a Waif?" at which Sir Pompus hissed: "it's Wraith, you cretin, not Waif, that's like a street kid," and Digby winked, "gotcha, Sir P, a fancy kinda Rent Boy!" and received a kick on the shin under the table and after a few seconds yelped, the distance for a message to travel from his lower leg to his brain making his reaction always a little out of sync, which often meant that people would stare at him, wondering why he had yelped; "the trouble is," said MacFarlane, lowering his voice and his head, so that his friends had to move their own heads lower and closer to hear him above the buzz of hilarity that was always present in here, and he explained: "he's sometimes so many moves ahead that he misses what's happening behind him, if you get my drift," and Digby grinned: "like a goal-scorer putting himself offside, cos he knows where the ball's gonna go but the backs have moved out of the penalty area cos they've not seen it coming – is that wot you mean?" and Sir Pompus' closed his eyes in order that he could compose himself, then shook his head: "you could put it that way, Diggers, although I'd rather you didn't – it's more to do with the nature of Boffer himself, he'd be no use at Poker, if he's got a good hand, and you could say that Domino dealt him a very good hand indeed, he can't sit still, keep his lips zipped, let the others play the way he wants them to, no, he can't sit still and keep that stupid grin off his face, he keeps looking at his hand and laughing and everyone can see he's got a flush or a full house, can practically identify his cards because they can read his rubber lips as he says to himself, "three aces and two kings," or "ten, jack, queen, king, ace," so nobody bets against him and he keeps piling cash on the table and when everyone folds he realises it's his own money he's pulling in and then he starts blaming the other players, he just can't help it; just like he let everyone know, weeks ago, that he was setting up to blame the EU if he got his No Deal, everyone and his dog could see it, except Boffer himself; and the same with Proroguing Parliament, splitting the Party to get rid of the Remainers, forcing a Confidence Vote, trying to bully the Opposition into a General Election, even the man on a Clapham Omnibus could see what was going on, but Boffer just couldn't let it work it's way through, he was too busy shouting that he'd got a great wheeze that would enable him to trounce the Socialist Revolutionaries and European Unionists with a single stroke," and Natalie sighed: "and he really put Lizzie in a spot, didn't he, sending that long drip Jacobo Moggie up to Balmoral to get her autograph?" and Digby woke up: "what on Earth was Moggie doing lying down on the Treasury Bench?" he asked apropos of nothing, but Nat giggled, "psycho-analysis," she said, and Digby shook his head: "the Chamber's really not the place to ask for Colonic Massage!," and Sir Pompus groaned: "the fogey's got far too much of the ascesis for my taste, like Walter Pater and his aesthetes, bloody Pansies, the lot of them! of course, all the Moggies are a bit strange," referring to inhabitants of Mogerhanger in his Constituency by their demonym, which was the origin of the Leader of the House's family name, but Natalie defended Jacobo: "probably had a stiff neck, from trying to face two ways at once, it's a very demanding job he's got," and "that's right," cried Digby, seizing on this adscititious cause, "like that Roman God, wotsername? oh yes, Janice!"