Toward the rear of the cavern stand some thirty glittering, golden cups, each one full of more promise than the last. Boris can barely contain himself, his eyes reflecting the inviting shine of gems and a golden future [ed. shouldn’t that be “Golden Dawn”?]. “Which one is it, which future do I choose?” There were many options for Boris to choose from, but he could not seem to make a firm commitment to any of them.
Bech tries to offer advice, whilst munching on a potato pancake. “You must choose a future. But choose wisely. For as the true grail will bring the UK economy to life, the false grail will take it away.” Boris ponders for a moment. He takes a breath, tousles his own hair, and after stuttering for fifteen to twenty minutes says “well as you all know, I am a historian, but I have no idea what the future looks like, and frankly, I’m prepared to apologise if I pick the wrong one. Now, which one is it?”
An Austrian bureaucrat steps out of the shadows and says “let me choose, I have a PhD”. For a moment Boris looks relieved, the pressure is off of him. But then, a voice calls from far away, faintly resembling Michael Gove, “don’t listen to her, she’s a goddamn expert!” Remembering that his entire expedition was funded on the proviso that expert advice be shunned at all times, Boris ushers the Austrian away. “If I’m going to lead” announces Boris “I must do so in total isolation”.
Striding forward with a new sense of purpose, whilst waving a miniature Union Jack, Boris reaches for the heaviest, most jewel encrusted cup he can find. Through watering eyes Boris gushes “this future is more beautiful than I’d ever imagined.” It seems implausibly pretty, as if this one cup can solve all of the problems in the UK with one swig. Without a second thought, that is exactly what Boris does, and drinks greedily from the goblet of promise. “Here’s to everlasting economic growth and migrant free trade deals.”
There is a glow of satisfaction, Boris knew he had won. But then he is struck by a crippling pain in his chest. Burdened by the weight of unrealistic economic and immigration promises, Boris begins to age rapidly, his body thins, the fat literally falling from his face. Within seconds he is transformed into his father, Stanley, and suddenly his views on this whole EU situation instantly change. Bech smirks “he chose…poorly.”
So it is left to Dave. He steps up, pensive, but channelling the spirit of Churchill, whispers to himself “I’ve come this far on Europe, I won’t give up on it now.” Surveying all of the options in front of him, Dave concludes “the future won’t be made of gold.” In the midst of all the shining and attractive promises, stands a single, bland goblet. The cup is worn around the edges, dented in places, with a couple of chips in the glaze. “That’s the cup of the status quo” states Dave confidently. The Austrian expert quietly agrees. “Only one way to find out”, and Dave drains the water from his battered cup.
Turning anxiously back to Bech, Dave asks pleadingly with his eyes. Bech smiles, “you have chosen wisely. But the grail cannot pass the great seal, now that you’ve got it don’t go running off to Turkey with it or anything daft like that.”
“And immortality, am I immortal now?” Dave asks with a genuine sense of anticipation.
“What?” An incredulous Bech responds, “immortal, no, of course not. Frankly I think your position was going to be pretty much untenable however this played out.”
“But, I don’t feel any different, I don’t feel any better…” Dave whimpers with disappointment. “Well, you wouldn’t, nothing has changed. You’ve chosen the status quo, so things will be pretty much as they were.”
“Well, that’s not very exciting”, Dave mutters whilst looking down, lazily kicking out at a pebble. “No”, Bech responds, “but economic stability, maintaining close working relationships with existing partners and collectively working on resolving problems together is not exciting, but it’s better than making a choice that would tear this room in half, cause massive earthquakes and risk losing our shared wealth down a massive chasm.”
“We’re not talking about grails anymore, are we?”
“This was never about grails Dave, grails are exciting and dynamic, the prospect of changing something always gets the heart rate up, but you’ve got to ask yourself, is that change for the better?”
“So, have we ditched the Indiana Jones metaphor?”
“Yes, Indy has served his purpose, we’ve taken it as far as it can go, plus, an extended 1989 film reference might be lost on a lot of people reading this.”
“It’s lost on me, I mean, I’m a cool cat an’ all, I’ve certainly heard of Indiana Jones, and he was great in Star Wars…”
“Shut up Dave, frankly, nobody wanted to hear from you on any of this in the first place. The important things to take from this, if you’ve stuck with it this long, is that all that shines with glitter and gold, is rarely something of substance. We have been given gold plate covered promises. Scratch the surface, and commitments from the Leave camp on the economy, immigration, the NHS, funding for subsidies, heck, even regarding sovereignty (there being all sorts of other international organisations to whom we [sorry, “you”, I forget I am voicing a deceased politician from Luxembourg] defer our laws to, can all be shown to be built on rusted tin. There is no substance to the Leave arguments. The EU is far from perfect, but it’ a heck of a lot better than the reality facing the UK without it.
Do the sensible thing on the 23rd of June. Vote In, and make Europe better from within. There is so much that is positive about British involvement within the European Union, and too much to be gambled on an ideological whim.”
End credits – ride into sunset (or overcast conditions if filming in the UK).
For reference sake, Farage was going to be cast in this as a support role Nazi officer, but I felt the script would be too long with his inclusion. Suffice to say, Farage is a bit of a Nazi, and we don’t like him.