In the quiet, mahogany-panelled corridors of the House, Sir Reckonard Poisonby-Smythe was a man on a mission. He was, by his own admission, planting more seeds than a farmer’s market.
Unfortunately for the nation, Sir Reckonard was not a farmer, nor had he ever set foot on soil that an expensive gardener had not manicured. He was the Head Secretary for Strategic Initiatives and Future Vistas, a government department created specifically to ensure that vast sums of public money could disappear into thin air without disturbing the Treasury accountants.
‘You see, Roderikx,’ Sir Reckonard announced, leaning back in his leather armchair and lacing his fingers together, ‘it is all about sowabilitation. We scatter the policy seeds across the landscape, announce them in the daily tabloids and let the public marvel at our agriculturistic ambition.’
Roderikx, a weary EU senior civil servant whose hair had turned grey since the Brexit referendum, sighed gently.
‘And the harvest, Minister? When do we actually reap these policies?’
‘Reap?’ Sir Reckonard looked genuinely baffled, as though Roderikx had suddenly started speaking fluent Latin. ‘My dear chap, reaping is for accountants and voters. We are in the business of visionary planting. If you actually grow the crop, someone has to harvest it, store it and ultimately answer for why the ‘carrots’ are slightly wonky. No, no. We plant, we take the photo opportunity with a shiny spade and then we move on to the next field.’
‘I fail to see the logic,’ Roderikx murmured.
Sir Reckonard chuckled, a dry, papery sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
‘My dear Roderikx, you are still thinking like a man shackled to continental logic,’ he said, waving a manicured hand dismissively. ‘We don’t reap the harvest for the public. That would require actual infrastructure. No, the political harvest is far more refined. Eighty per cent of the yield goes directly into the party’s pockets via consultancies and donor networks, fifteen per cent evaporates into the ether. If we are feeling particularly charitable, a microscopic five per cent is scraped together for the skinny budget to keep the voters from rioting.’
He leaned forward, his smile sharpening into something predatory.
‘That, my grey-haired friend, is Brexit’s most valuable face. Autonomy. The magnificent, unbothered freedom to mismanage our own funds without Brussels asking for receipts.’
‘Minister,’ Roderikx pressed, tapping a pristine blue folder against his knee, ‘the Opposition is calling a point of order this afternoon. They wish to point out that despite ten years of seed-planting, the national infrastructure currently consists of two unfinished cycle paths, a broken smart motorway and a solitary solar panel abandoned in a hedge.’
Sir Reckonard waved a hand, entirely unbothered by the state of the national grid.
‘The solar panel in the hedge is not an abandonment, Roderikx, it is a rewilding initiative for clean tech. It generates green energy at a level accessible to local badgers. It’s micro-infrastructure. As for the Opposition, let them whinge.’
He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he plucked a fresh piece of paper from a silver tray on his desk. The theatrical amusement vanished, replaced by a sudden, chilling pragmatism.
‘However, speaking of the public, the latest constituency polling arrived from the Cabinet Office twenty minutes ago. It seems our core voters have developed a sudden, collective bout of buyer’s remorse regarding our absolute autonomy. The numbers for rejoining the European Union are, frankly, terrifying.’
Roderikx blinked, his hand freezing over his folder.
‘Are you saying you are going to ignore them?’
‘Good heavens, no,’ Sir Reckonard scoffed, leaning forward. ‘We are a democratic government, Roderikx. We must follow the people’s wish. If the voters want to pivot back to Brussels, then we shall pivot with the enthusiasm of a dynamic start-up.’
‘But what about the magnificent freedom to mismanage funds?’ Roderikx asked, utterly bewildered by the sudden U-turn. ‘What about the autonomy?’
Sir Reckonard smiled, a smooth, buttery expression that oozed survival instinct.
‘My dear chap, think of the funding options! Rejoining means accession grants, cohesion funds, and regional development initiatives; a whole new continent of complex, multi-tiered bureaucracy. Just imagine how much public money we can hide in an EU-approved, transnational railway project before anyone notices the tracks don’t fit. Autonomy was grand for a decade, but a return to Brussels? That is a harvest of historic proportions.’
