Angie doesn’t love Dave anymore

Seems like Angela Merkel hasn’t reached the age of consent yet.

I’m not using the word in the same sense in which Patricia ‘Eight’s Too Late’ Hewitt uses it, and nor am I hinting at any impropriety in the relationship between Frau Merkel and Dave.

Actually I could if I wanted to: pasted all over the papers are pictures of Dave kissing Angie on the cheek – though not the same Angie’s cheek that Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung has accused Dave of kissing as a sum total of his policy.

On the other hand, the same pictures show Angie’s strained expression and her successful attempt to keep her lips out of the way. So even if Dave harbours indecent thoughts about Angie’s cheeks, wherever on her body they could be found, she won’t encourage him.

No, it’s not like that at all. Dave simply wants to be Angie’s friend. More to the point, he wants Angie to be his friend. Because friends help each other out of a bind, that’s what friendship is all about.

“My love!” said Dave. “Liebchen! I want you! I need you! I can’t have any life – any political life – without you! Please consent to be my friend! Meine Freundin! Give me a sign, a teensy-weensy sign that you’re relenting. One sign, or perhaps two or three?”

Nein,” said Angie.

“Nine signs? Even better!” Dave put his hand on Angie’s beefy arm and reached for her cheek again (her facial cheek, that is, whatever that dastardly Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung says).

Nein, dummkopf,” winced Angie pushing Dave aside. “N-e-i-n spells nein. Zat’s ze German for no. No signs. None. Zilch. Bupkes. Nichts.”

“But Lieschen,” insisted Dave, showing off his fluent German. “Can’t you see I’m in dire straits? I need you to love me. No one else does. Boys and girls who live in the left wing say I don’t love you enough. Those in the right wing say I love you too much. And then all those Europeans land in Britain like bluebottles on a warm cowpat…”

 “Was ist das?” demanded Angie, sounding like a stern mistress – school mistress, that is.

“Well, you see, Liebchen,” explained Dave. In the last election I promised to ‘slash net migration by tens of thousands’.”

Sehr gut!” smiled Angie. “Das ist a bloody gut idea. Zey come, zey collect benefits, ze economy goes kaput.”

“Yes, well, it does indeed,” agreed Dave ruefully. “Except I haven’t.”

“You haven’t vhat?”

“Slashed the damn thing, that’s what. In fact, last year net migration went up by a third.”

“Not my problem,” replied Angie firmly. “Talk to ze Nigerian Chancellor. Or Indian. Vy me?”

“Well, there’s the rub, Liebchen…”

“You’re not rubbing me, you Irregeführter… zat’s pervert to you….”

“No, Liebling, I mean that’s the problem. You see, net migration from your EU has gone up even more, by forty percent. We must do something about that blasted free movement of labour…”

“Labour is freely moving into Downing Street,” quipped Angie with the wit for which her compatriots are so justly famous. Dave made himself chuckle politely.

“That’s what I mean,” he said. “I need to do something about it. Or rather to be seen to be doing something. That clown Nigel Farage is braying for my blood, that cadaver Vince is being sarcastic, and as to my parliamentary party, oy vey…”

“Zat’s not Deutsch,” said Angie. “Zat’s Jüdisch.”

“Well, you know what I mean. If you don’t show your love immediately, pigs will fly before I’m re-elected.”

Schweinen don’t fly,” corrected Angie.

“Exactly. That’s a figure of speech. Means if I don’t win some concessions from you, Liebling, it’s lecture circuit for me in 2015…”

“Listen, Dave,” said Angie. “Du bist ein hübscher Junge and all zat… You’re a handsome boy, and I vish I could help… But, brace yourself Liebchen, I’m in love viz someone else. His name is José Manuel, and he tells me I can only love you if all 28 members get up and salute…”

“But they never will!”

“Afraid so,” commiserated Angie. ‘But ve can’t go against Ordnung. Ordnung is important. But you’re a clever Junge, you’ll think of somesing.”

Angie walked out, leaving Dave in despair. What is he going to do? A solution came to him in a flash. Dave took out his I-Phone and speed-dialled his Director of Communications.

“Craig? It’s Dave,” he said.

“The bitch gave me a run-around, just like you said she would. But tell you what, I’ve got an idea.

“Why don’t you get those hacks you’ve got on tap and tell them I was misquoted… Well, you know, during the campaign… Tell them I actually promised to boost net migration, not slash it. They just got it wrong…

“Yes, I know it’s thin… So think of something thick – and none of your stupid jokes about Frau Merkel.”







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