Running through the wheat fields of Oxfordshire with her little dog FarFar, Dorothy May heard a shout of ‘Get orf moi land!’ ‘Oh dear, we have been terribly naughty, FarFar,’ she said, and felt suddenly dizzy at the very idea. The whole of Britain, a small island off Europe, seemed to spin around, and she was carried off by an anti-cyclone, caused by the man-made climate change which Uncle Trump had told her does not exist.
‘Oh, oh, oh! cried Dorothy May, soaring over the patchwork fields, dreaming spires and Fracking sites of lovely southern England. Then the storm abated and she was dumped on her arse in the field all on her own – apart from her loyal FarFar, who was always a part of the scene. Oxfordshire looked the same, but somehow different now. ‘Well,’ she said, climbing to her feet, straightening her hair and brushing the ears of wheat from her pretty 1950s dress. ‘That was a strange thing,’ she said to FarFar. ‘But everything is surely going to be normal soon, as long as I keep acting like nothing has happened. I am going to see where I am.’
With her little dog by her side, Dorothy walked through the field, humming a happy tune by Purcell to keep her spirits up. Soon, she spotted someone in the distance, and chased him, calling, ‘Hey! Hey you. You with the scruffy clothes. Stop and help me.’ As Dorothy got nearer, she saw it was an unkempt roly-poly man with a mop of hair like hay. ‘Can I help you, you fine young filly?’ the man said.
‘Don’t you come that filly crap with me,’ said Dorothy, with all the courage she could muster. ‘We haven’t even been introduced. What’s your name?’
‘I am Boris the Scarecrow,’ said the man.
‘Well, Boris, I am lost. You are to show me how to get to my home in Europe,’ said Dorothy, quite firmly.
‘I can’t help you get there,’ said Boris, ‘because I don’t have a brain. I have been waiting five years for an NHS operation to give me one.’
‘Have you thought about going private?’
‘Yes, but scarecrows aren’t exactly loaded, you know. Anyway, I know someone who can help you get home. He’s the Tin Man, and can give you the magic silver shoes which once belonged to the Wicked Witch, John Major, Tony Bliar and all the rest of them. They can carry you home. Ah, here he comes now.’
There was the sound of clanking and rusty metal scraping together. ‘Hello, I’m the Tin Man, formerly known as British Steel,’ the figure said, to keep the story moving along. ‘I have gone rusty. Can you help?’
‘No I can’t,’ said Dorothy. ‘I hate engineering, it is ugly and dirty. Can you give me some magic silver shoes to help me go back to Europe?’
‘I’d like to, but like you, I have no heart. And the shoes aren’t silver, they’ve gone rusty from disuse. But I know someone who might be able to help, and here he comes now.’
‘Hiya, I am Clegg The Cowardly Lion, and I used to be politics’ answer to Harry Styles,’ he said to blank looks all round. He roared ‘Rah!’ pathetically, then blinked beneath his posh mane.
‘That’s not very scary!’ exclaimed Dorothy.
‘That’s because I am a Liberal Democrat,’ said the Cowardly Lion. FarFar began to growl.
‘I don’t have the courage of my convictions,’ the Cowardly Lion confessed. ‘In fact, I have so few convictions that I joined a coalition. But since then everything has been shit and somebody stole my nice seat that I enjoyed sitting on. I’m warning you, always stick to your convictions.’
‘Oh, do stop going on, I’m a busy girl with important things to do,’ puffed Dorothy. ‘Can you get me get home to Europe, Cowardly Lion?’
‘I’d love to, but I’m too scared,’ shuddered the Lion. ‘The only one with balls around here is the Wizened Of Oz. Let’s go see him.’
‘I’ve got balls too,’ said Dorothy, but nobody believed her.
They skipped off down the Yellow Brex Road with FarFar snapping at their heels, until they came to a Wapping Great Castle covered in satellite dishes. They knocked on the door, and there emerged a deep, scary voice: ‘Strewth, not more sodding Poms. Have you brought me a big bag of gold?’
‘No, I have not. Only Sterling. We abandoned the gold standard in 1931, shamefully, but at least we didn’t adopt the Euro,’ said Dorothy. ‘Are you the Wizened of Oz? I am Dorothy May and I need your help. An anticyclone has carried me away and I need to get home to Europe.’
‘Europe? The place stinks,’ scoffed Oz, who threw the door open. He was not big and scary at all, just a crumbly old fella. ‘It’s full of bloody foreigners over there. Ignore that Europe crap. Come home to Blighty. It may not be God’s Own Country, but it still has lots of lovely traditional British things in it, like Jerry Hall, 20-20 cricket, and Sky telly. And your policeman is wonderful. Though it needs an Australian-style points-based system for immigration.’ FarFar chased his own tail in delight.
‘OK then, I agree,’ said Dorothy, trying but failing to look convinced. ‘From now on Britain shall be my home and I will hate Europe. Whatever you say, oh Wizened Of Oz. How do I get there?’
‘Just say ‘There’s no place like the home counties 10 times’ and you shall go there,’ said The Wizened.
‘I shall! Thank you Wizened, goodbye. Thank you, Tin Man, goodbye, thank you Scarecrow, goodbye, and thank you Cowardly Lion for making this all possible by having no convictions. There’s no place like the home counties, there’s no place like the home counties, there’s no place like the home counties…’
And Dorothy found herself twirling up into the sky, higher and higher, and everything went quiet for a moment.
Then she woke up, and she was Prime Minister and nobody loved her anymore, even though she promised to forget Europe and stick with Britain. The Scarecrow was standing by her bed. Dorothy looked down, and noticed he was wearing rusty shoes. He was laughing.
‘You’ve had a terrible nightmare,’ he guffawed. ‘You were calling out for help. But I’m not providing it. I’m taking over now, young filly. And before you ask, because this story is quite long enough, FarFar has gone to live with Uncle Trump.’
And Dorothy screamed. And screamed. And screamed.