ANN WIDDECOMBE'S BREXIT REBOOT
AS TOLD TO MATT OWEN
Many people (including the vicar and my handyman, Phil) have been questioning me over the last 24 hours as to what has made me come out of political retirement, and leave hit ITV5 show 'Celebrity 1940s Hopscotch House', to stand in the forthcoming European elections.
The answer is simple. I have quite simply had enough of Britain being made to look a prize chump in the eyes of the rest of the World. The likes of Macron are currently sat on his over-subsidised, arrogant, rather shapely backside and guffawing in our faces and flicking the V’s in our direction. Could you imagine such a thing happening if Margaret Thatcher were Prime Minister? Or Ted Heath, for that matter? Oh no, he signed the treaty when we joined in 1973. Imagine, if you will, John Major succumbing to the EU overlords and signing up to the Maastricht treaty in 1993? Oh, that happened as well. Quick, Ann – think of someone who wouldn’t crumble in the face of European oppression.
Ah, yes – here’s a good one. Imagine Winston Churchill crumbling to Brussels back in 1944 when the EU never existed, and we were still in the throes of World War Two. It would never have happened, and never did thanks to the fact the two moments in history were separated by 29 years.
So, how come I’ve been tempted out of retirement? Who is responsible for this change of mind, pour mois? Oh dear, that’s French. Well, the other week I was sat in my drawing room, having a cup of strong tea, nibbling on a Rich Tea Biscuit (I’m not one for ostentatious biscuits, covered with chocolate, containing fudge and the like) whilst writing a letter to the local paper, demanding the council cease their plans to build a refuge for fallen women. There I was, minding my own business when Phil entered the room with my mobile telephone, which was playing my new “ringtone” Onward Christian Soldiers.
“Thank you, Phil, you may go and spread the rest of the manure, and if you wish, use my shower afterwards as you will be filthy dirty”. I have been good enough to take Phil in, after the poor wretch was caught shoplifting in a local supermarket. On a few occasions (I think it’s 27 times at the last count) I’ve accidentally walked in on Phil whilst he’s been showering, but these are the kind of sacrifices I am forced to make as a good Christian. I guess I should put that lock on the door I mistakenly had him remove two weeks ago when he first started. We’ll see.
The voice on the end of the phone belonged to someone I’d had the misfortune of meeting once at the local golf club’s pro-celebrity day – it was none other than Nigel Farage. Nigel Farage was teamed up with John Pilger that day on the golf course, whilst I was tee-ing off with the legendary jockey, Bill Beaumont.
“Hi Ann, Nige here – you may have noticed I’ve started a new political party, and I’m convinced you can really make a difference and help us take back control of things that need taking back control. We need a big name who’s going to really stir them up in the South-West, and we know you’ve got some great, go-backwards, nasty ideas. Everyone here in the pub, I mean Headquarters, thinks you’re the right person for the job, and besides Katie Hopkins can’t afford the deposit because she’s just been sued by the West Indian cricket team.”
I told Nigel I hadn’t noticed he was starting a new political party, because I was spending my retirement constructively, by complaining to the BBC about programmes I’ve never watched, weaponising the local Women’s Institute and trying to get pieces of art I don’t understand, destroyed.
However, I was intrigued. I told Nigel that if were to stand for his wretched new party, then I would only do so under certain conditions. Firstly, I need to be compensated for the 17 reality TV shows I’m meant to be partaking in over the coming month. I also insisted that we added some of my own thoughts to the manifesto, such as bringing back the death penalty for attending music festivals, no sex before death, and an arrest warrant be issued for the town of Stroud, in Gloucestershire.
This appeared to go down well with Farage, although he was concerned that some of those ideas would be a “little on the extreme side” for some of his colleagues on the right of his party. I told him straight “If you want that Widdecombe magic, Nigel, you’ve got to go balls out” (a bit like Phil when I accidentally, mistakenly walked in on him in the shower after he’d finished strimming in the garden yesterday).
Before I had a chance to dramatically slam the phone down on old bullfrog features, Nigel excitedly barked “You’re on! The paperwork, goody bag and Russian phrasebook is in the post”.
I’m BACK, baby.