The Return of Our Lord and Saviour

As Tristram Hunt and Chukka Umunna rally the faithful to launch the Resistance to Jeremy Corbyn I figured I’d write this…

Tristram rested a hand on the pommel of his sword. He could afford the comfort of calmness now, he was home, at last, in sight of the great white cliffs of Dover. At the peak of which lay the crown of his expectations.

On the estates and farms, in shops and factories, branches of Waitrose and office blocks, his people awaited him. Desperate to break the shackles cast upon them by the Usurper, the thief, the rabble rouser who’d driven out their one true leader, him.

Yes, the time of his absence had been hard on them. Yoked to the plough of Corbyn, forced to dark Labours by his rabid followers who held no regard for the ancient rights of their betters. Bullied by uncouth barbarians in donkey jackets, flat caps and conspicuous by their refusal to wear a tie like they should. How could they not dream of his return? Singing the forbidden hymns in quiet moments, hidden from the heavy glare of thuggish union boot boys culled from the degenerate masses. Reciting tracts of virtue and Agas smuggled to them by the resolute exiles of Comment is Free as if the beacon of civility could keep them warm in their long, hard Autumn of discontent. Oh what triumphs would be declared! What exultations of joy would be heard when their rightful ruler delivered to them the treasures of sensible private sector involvement and true consensus government in the realm!

And to the traitors? The agitating barrow boys, reckless youths and belligerent peasantry? A swift death. For a true ruler could not be without mercy. And the ten thousand screaming Guardian readers at his back would see that their resistance would be but fleeting. Recruited from their poor exile in Provence with barely half a tonne of Quinoia and a copy of ‘Unspeakable Things’ to their name their blood-lust shocked even Tristram himself.  Especially that of the Lady of Kendall, who by her own hands had already shed the blood of many a Corbynite whilst he himself had sought refuge in exile, alongside the Lord Chukka and his strange coterie of tabloid intriguing adherents. But their loyalty was treasured and did they not have cause enough for revenge? Was it not their investment properties that had been rent controlled? Their free schools that had been handed back to the vile masses? Necessity demanded that they be offered flesh in payment for such slights. And, as ever, justice was a ruler’s duty. As was resistance.

Tristram smiled to himself. The end was nigh and things could only get better.

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