The scene is a great meeting house in Belfast, capital of Northern Ireland. Enter King Tony, followed by Sir Alastair Campbell, with Prime Ministers in attendance, spin doctors, Orangemen, etc, etc.
Tony: And so I do declare this parliament open.
My fellows Scots, we have fought long and hard
To have a place where we can talk all night
And gain th'illusion of independence...
Campbell: No, no, my Lord! This is a different
Tomorrow do we go to Edinburgh!
Hereafter is all fun and devolution!
Today is graft and deadline-talking time.
Tony: 'Tis true. I should have known 'tis Ireland here
By all these hard-lined faces gathered round,
These minds worn smooth by bigotry and bias.
Know then, my thick-skulled Irish subjects,
My disaffected Unionists led by Trimble,
My treacherous Papists led by Adams here,
Who, to hear him speak, you'd think a saint
Who never in his life has seen a gun -
Know then that if you do not sign for peace
Before the midnight hour has struck tonight
You all will suffer my true wrath and anger.
Tony: That the bombs will fall on
Here in Belfast, blowing up your infrastructure,
Bringing you peace, against your murderous will.
Trimble: My Lord - you cannot bomb your own
Tony: Oh, can I not! That's what King Slobodan
But soon he heard the whistle of the rockets
And soon he crumbled, begging me for peace!
Trimble: 'Tis not at all the same. If you bomb
You will be just like Slobodan in Kosovo!
Tony: Whatever. Just get your act together here
And make me seem the monarch that I am!
The scene changes to the Passport Office in Petty France, where crowds of starving and dying people are lying around. Enter Sir Jack Straw.
Straw: May I have your attention for a minute?
You all do come from overseas for asylum,
And in due course you shall be processed...
Adviser: No, no, my Lord, you have it wrong again! These are all British folk, seeking their holidays! They do but wait their passport to be given!
Straw: And what does keep them here?
Adviser: Duke Prescott
Has ordered that a bus lane go through here
To relieve the pressure on the public roads.
Straw: And has it worked?
Adviser: No. Things are twice as bad.
Enter a tall female figure in boots and enormous spectacles. It is Dame Janet Street-Porter.
Janet: Oh, strewth, me blisters! Bring my
And let me have a sit-down for a while.
I have walked this blooming land all day
And now am come to - where am I, by the way? Straw: In Petty France.
Janet: In France? Oh, say not so!
I must have taken a turning wrong somewhere. For I was meant to meet Sir Elton John
And have a chat with him about the country -
Cruising, cottaging, all that sort of thing.
Well, sod that for a lark. I'll get a taxi!
Exit Dame Janet Street-Porter. Enter Sir Greg Dyke, arm in arm with Lord Melvyn Bragg.
Dyke: Tell me, dear Melvyn, now that I am head
Of all the King's Broadcasting Company,
What is this thing called radio? TV I know,
But this poor thing with paltry sound alone,
No pictures to relieve the gloom: what can one do?
Bragg: A word, dear Greg, in secret. What to do
Is send young Paxman packing from his perch
And let me Start The Week again instead!
Dyke: And will it bring the ratings up again?
Bragg: They'll shoot right up, like shares in LWT. Dyke: Hot diggity dog. Let's do it right away!
Exeunt Dyke, Bagg, Straw, severally, leaving dying crowds still awaiting their passports.
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