EU-Leavers always say nasty things about Jean Claude Juncker, or Junk, as he likes to be known to his friends, of whom I’m proud to be one. That just goes to show how little they understand this courageous man fighting for their cause behind the scenes.
The other day Junk told me, as he was finishing his second daily bottle of Martel Cordon Bleu, “A-lex [he sexily stresses my name on the second syllable], I’ve got it all sussed out, as we say in Luxembourg. Two years now I’ve been your agent provocateur behind EU lines, and now I can guarantee a Leave vote.”
“Junk,” I said, “haven’t you had enough? You’re killing yourself, mate, and we need you.”
“Listen, you wimp,” replied Junk angrily. “I can drink you under any table any day. I’m not s**t-faced, as we say in Luxembourg. So you better listen to what I’ve got to say.”
“Fine, Junk,” I sighed. ‘Say your piece. What’s the great plan you’ve come up with?”
Junk helped himself to another snifterful of Martel and said, “You Brits used to be a nation of shopkeepers and now you’re a nation of shoplifters. But you’re still a bloody-minded bunch, aren’t you?
“If there’s one thing you chaps hate, it’s being threatened, am I wrong? If someone threatens you not to do something, you’re sure to do it, am I wrong?”
“So what’s your point, Junk?” I asked and reached for the bottle, only to find it empty.
“I’ll tell you what my point it,” said Junk. “As EU Prezzie-Wezzie, I’m going to threaten you with the Plagues of Egypt if you vote Leave. And I’ll sound so nasty that everyone will be pissed off. A-lex, you can’t be that slow on the uptake, as we say in Luxembourg. Know what I’m driving at?”
It then occurred to me that, drunk or sober, Junk can still do more for the Leave cause than ten Farages put together. “I say,” I said. “Give it a go, Junk. It just might work.”
Sure enough, early next morning, when his first bottle was still half-full, Junk spoke with his typical, if in this case expertly put-on, vigour. As usual, the published version of his speech was edited to smooth out the rough edges, but this is what he actually said:
“If you vote Leave, we’ll treat you as [expletive deleted] deserters. And you know what they do to [expletive deleted] deserters in wartime?
“You’ll be considered a third party and one we won’t suck up to, as we say in Luxembourg. If the British leave Europe, both us and them will have to bear the consequences.
“This isn’t a threat, just a warning. So decide what you want to do, you miserable islanders. Either s**t or get off the toilet, as we say in Luxembourg. And you better not get off.”
Immediately after delivering this oration, Junk rang me on his mobile. “So do I rate the bloody Victoria Cross?” he asked. “I’ve done more for British independence than anyone I can think of.”
I was effusive in my praise. “You most certainly did, Junk. Even those who’ve been undecided now talk about sticking two fingers to the EU.”
“You bet your bottom euro, as we say in Luxembourg. And I ain’t half done yet,” said Junk, who prides himself on his mastery of English colloquialisms.
This time I was all ears. “So what’s the next step, Junk?”
“I’m going to talk a few actors into writing a truly asinine petition, saying that Brexit will spell the end of all arts in Britain. Brill, innit?”
“I don’t know, Junk,” I said. “People listen to actors these days.”
“Don’t be daft, A-lex. What’s the first job requirement for an actor?”
“Yes, but where does acting talent come from?” Junk was getting impatient, suggesting to me that his secretary had forgotten to put that second bottle into his desk drawer. “They can only slip into all those different personalities because they have none of their own.
“That means stupidity is the first qualification for an actor. Everyone knows that. So people will do the opposite of what these morons say.”
“Oh well, if you say so. Worth a try, I suppose.”
Yet again Junk delivered. The very next day several film actors went public with a cosmically idiotic petition, acting as dummies to Junk’s ventriloquist. And we’re talking real A-listers here: Cumberbatch, Nighy, Scott Thomas, Bonham Carter, Law, Stevenson, Knightley.
I immediately rang Junk to congratulate him. “I say,” I said. “You did it, Junk. Let’s hope it works.”
“Hope’s cheap, as we say in Luxembourg,” croaked Junk. “I play for keeps, me old china. I’m like your Mata Hari, minus the Bristols and…”
I cut Junk short at that point, complimenting him on his knowledge of Cockney rhyming slang. Sometimes he’s just insufferable when he has had a few, which is always. But I’ll say one thing for Junk: he’s a mover and shaker. As they say in Luxembourg.