Inside the EU prison, we are at the mercy of Harry Grout and his henchmen.
And as Boris Johnson becomes the personification of Norman Stanley Fletcher, we must be under no illusion about why the EU has behaved as it has.
It has reach.
Even we were to leave, they will be able to get at us out in the real world, using their malign influence in the pristine halls and residences of global leadership they are able to bribe and blackmail their patsies and proxies into making life very difficult for anyone that has displeased them.
And of course knowing this (and knowing that their victims know this), makes them tough negotiators – why give away anything if you know your victim understands that he is screwed in here and is screwed out there.
This is why the EU never needs to negotiate.
And turning our gaze to its useful idiots in our own nation, we start to see them in a different light. The worst of them are his henchmen – grotesque nincompoops within the mainstream media, judges, trade unionists, politicians and journalists that do their bidding for an extra slice of toast, an extra tube of toothpaste, or protection and favours within the prison environment.
And the best of them? Wheedling craven creatures despised by all the other inmates, they lurk in the shadows looking for opportunities to betray and cajole their way into the good graces of Harry.
We call them Remaniacs.
So how does Norman Stanley Fletcher negotiate with Harry Grout, fearing that Grout can have him shivved just as easily on the street as he can in the prison? That escaping the physical confines of the grim grey clanking fortress into the bright sunlight of the outside world in no way prevents Grout from reaching out in a day or a week or a year to destroy those things held dear?
Why it’s to grow a spine, and to leave the Trumanesque prison in which he has lived these last few decades. To strike out and accept that Harry Grout’s influence is rooted not in power but in fear.
To see Harry Grout for what he really is – a querulous old man, trapped in a crumbling tower, waiting for death.
So……………do we wish to live with risk outside this crumbling tower, or hide inside with the increasingly-deranged Harry Grout while his empire turns to dust?
Risk death on our feet, or live on our knees?