I look out of the window. Farage and Trump are jousting on the lawn, seeking to prove their manhood, but it is not going well. They have both landed gasping on the ground like capsized turtles, unable to right themselves under the weight of their armour. All the courtly ladies are laughing historically and throwing their gigantic medieval pants at – ME!

Seizing my cue I beckon up a mob of lepers and have the two heroes dragged off to the stocks where I command their armour to be removed so that the missiles hurt.

I walk away as the vegetable hurling begins. My job is done.