Her Majesty’s Government is cavorting

like the plot of a Gilbert and Sullivan

operetta, but without the witty words

and tunes; cavorting like Fred Karno’s army,

but without the deadpan genius

of Charlie Chaplin or Stan Laurel.

It as if those diagrams of the ascent

of man – from amoebae through dinosaurs

and whales to primates each less simian

than its predecessor – were to end

not in an upright homo sapiens

walking steadfastly into the future

to take his place before the wicket

or through the barbed wire towards the foe,

acting with honour, or, at least, aspiring,

but in homo mendax a shambling, dishevelled

creature, a cad, a bounder, a blackguard,

given to orotund clichés, and the

encouragement of corruption, the shameless

exploitation of the UK’s unwritten

constitution, the gentlemen’s agreement

that has obtained since Queen Victoria

was a lass – whose uncle, her predecessor,

was the last UK head of state to have

the power to dismiss a government.

‘We shall rule, your Majesty, but appear

to kowtow like proper subjects. We shall act

discreetly, justly, maintaining the forces

of law and order, and the Army,

and the Navy, in order to preserve

your status quo – keeping the Irish, the Scots,

and the Welsh in their place or, preferably,

packing them off to foreign lands. Your Majesty shall have –

and, indeed, we shall help you fund – your houses

and your horses, your titles and your corgis,

and the occasional jubilee.’