DEEP in the bowels of 11 Downing Street, the Chancellor and Defence Secretary are burning the midnight oil, trying to make the costs of the Syrian bombing more palatable to the gullible public.
Through the dividing wall in No 10 strange sounds can be heard.
“Neeeeyowwww, daga-daga-daga…”
Fallon: “What was that?”
Osborne: “Oh, that’s just Dave.”
F: “Ah yes, his youngsters in high spirits no doubt.”
O: “No, I mean THAT’S Dave.”
“doo-doo-doo-de-da-doo-doo…”
F: “Is that the tune from The Dam Busters?”
O: “You should have heard what he wanted to call this dog he saw the other day.”
F: “How long has this been going on?”
O: “Since you had the bloody stupid idea of telling him that the RAF had a spare plane kicking around with his name on it.”
F: “Aaah.”
O: “Oh and then when you got him all excited with your sabre-rattling and told him it was what Maggie would have done.”
F: “Hmmm.”
On the Chancellor’s desk the internal phone begins to ring. Reluctantly he answers.
Cameron: “I say Algie, where’s ginger? We need to take this kite up.”
O: “For God’s sake, Dave. For the last time my name is George not Algie, you’re not Biggles and we haven’t had any gingers around here since we shafted those Lib Dem morons.”
C: “Enough chatter, Algie. Loose talk costs lives and all that. It’s time we got up there in the old Sopwith Camel and taught these chappies what’s what.
“Let’s give the Bosch a good hiding what, chaps? Let’s get up there and give the Red Devils a taste of plucky British steel.”
O: “Er, Dave, the Red Devils are actually on our side.”
C: “Really?”
O: “Yes, I think you may have meant the Red Baron, he was German.”
C: “This is all jolly confusing Algie, which side is a chap on?”
O: “That’s what everyone else wants to know.”
He hangs up and turns to Fallon with a resigned look.
O: “I told them giving him that complete set of WE Johns books and a DVD of war movies was a bad idea. He’s going to be 10 times worse now after the Commons vote.
“What did you want anyway?”
F: “Er, £100 billion for Trident.”
O: “For God’s sake, can’t you see I’m busy? Thanks to you I’ve got to pretend to balance a budget AND fund a war. It’s a good job I don’t really care.”
There is the faint noise of someone knocking at the door and then the phone rings again.
O: “What now!? Yes? Oh, security, hello. What’s the problem? Not a terrorist attack I hope, ha ha! Just my little joke.
“I see, I see … well you know what to do.”
F: “Problem, George?”
O: “That was security. Apparently Hilary Benn has just turned up wearing a World War II fighter pilot’s helmet and what looks like a Tony Blair mask.”
F: “What does he want?”
O: “To know if Dave’s coming out to play, apparently.”

Well they went and did it again. And, sadly there was never really any doubt as to the outcome as a significant number of Blairite chancers cravenly crossed the floor to vote with the Tories on the latest tawdry episode of mass slaughter in the name of imperialist adventurism.

And with sickening predictability no sooner had the vote been announced than the bombs began falling quicker than the smile on a Donegal priest’s face when he realises his access-all-areas Boyzone ticket is not what he hoped it would be.