"VSOP Satire", "GT Satire", "Prime Satire", "Hand-crafted Satire", "Homeopathic Satire", "Full Bore Satire" 
.......international media
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At a recent Cabinet meeting, the Prime Minister led her team in a rousing chorus of 'Rule Britannia'. It went like this:
Rule Britannia, Britannia rule the waves!
Britons never shall be EU slaves!

Whilst we shall flourish great and free,
Our cities shall with commerce shine,
But nations not so blest as we
Will enter into long decline.

Blest Isle, with superb leaders crowned
That haughty tyrants cannot tame.
No foreign foot shall tread our ground
Where burns our freedom's cherished flame!

Rule Britannia, Britannia rule the waves,
Never, never, never EU slaves!
***************************************************

A Trip to Prague to Make Money for my Country.
Report from the Government's Top Salesman.
 
Boris sometimes comes to my office after jogging with his staff up the Mall. He's here now, looking a bit sweaty. He does some stretching exercises and then sits down. 
“I have an unusual task for you. Not connected with the asset sale. The P.M. wants you to go on a little reconnoitre. Nobody can be spared at the moment. We have an upcoming series of Treasury meetings.”
I wait for him to tell me more. Is this promotion? I doubt it - I don’t think the P.M. has a particularly high opinion of yours truly, even though the asset sale is proceeding quite nicely. Because I’ve scored a few hits, she probably thinks the job is too easy.
“Some people have approached us through our embassy in Prague and have suggested that we might be interested in a quantity of rare earths.” He pulls a small piece of paper from his pocket.
“Yttrium, Neodymion, Prometheum, Gadolinium and Terbium. Do you know what rare earths are?”
I can think of a few witty answers, mostly about places where politicians don’t exist, but keep them to myself. “Aren’t they stuff that’s used in computers, lasers and so on? Not much of it about and the Chinese seem to be hoarding it.”
“Exactly. The shortage of supply is why we’re interested. But, it’s not a question of purchase. If the offer is sound, we may wish to arrange a technology exchange of some sort. Your task is to meet their representative and ascertain exactly what they have. And also to judge if a deal can be consummated. You must also ensure that the representative is genuinely empowered to act and actually has the stuff. Do a thorough reconnoitre. I have assumed that you would be happy to go and your flights and hotel have been booked for tomorrow.”
Thanks very much, I think.
“You will meet a Mr. Slama in Prague, and proceed from there.”
“Alright,” I say. “I’ll give it a go.”
“Yes. Here are your tickets,” he says and leaves. The tickets show a return flight booked after two days, so I guess I can tear myself away from seeing Buddy-Jo, hard though it will be.
At Prague airport, I take a taxi to the city. The taxi driver says nothing the whole journey and concentrates on chicaning past the other traffic. Spread out on the shelf above the dash are soap, a few small toys, a mobile phone and a deodorant stick. Hanging from above the windscreen are good luck charms and his I.D. card which gives his blood group and says his name is Vaclav Trzhd. He swerves into the parking space in front of the Europa Hotel and hits the brakes hard.
“Good!” he says. My bag is picked up by a youth with dyed red hair who disappears as I tip Vaclav.
“Good!” he says again, shakes my hand and gives me his card.
I push my way through a noisy group of teenagers and go in what appears to be the main entrance of the hotel. Except it’s the entrance to a large and busy coffee-room, in which two elderly gentlemen are playing violin and piano, in full evening dress.
“Table for one, sir?” asks a waiter.
“No thanks,” I say. “Hotel?”
“Next door,” he says, so I try again. At reception, a letter is waiting for me. It’s from Mr. Slama and reads:
‘Welcome, Dr. Bryggs, to Praha. Please to meet at Casino Red Dog at 13.30 hours. Thank you. Yours faithfully. K. Slama.’
The youth with the red hair and my bag appears and shows me to my room.
“Manchester United, very good,” he says. I give him a tip. The room is large, has creaking floors and a brand new bathroom, in which hangs a sign saying:
‘Please regret water shutdown. Water return 19.30 hours. Thank your understanding.’
At the Casino Red Dog, the doorman looks at me with a welcoming leer.
“Mr. Slama, please,” I ask.
He sniffs and gets a boy to show me upstairs. We pass through a huge and noisy, smoke-filled room where the gaming tables are crowded with Czechs and tourists, mostly Germans it seems. Mr. Slama is sitting in a red plush booth peering into his brief case. He jumps up and pumps my hand. “Welcome, welcome to Praha,” he says. “Good trip?”
“Fine, thank you,” I say.
“Two Belinskies,” he says to the boy. “So, here you are. Praha very beautiful city. Many beautiful girls. Ha, ha. But we do business, yes?”
“Yes, indeed,” I say.
Mr. Slama is thin, has bags under his eyes, hair slicked down to his skull and is wearing black clothes and a large Rolex. He has a tablet I don’t recognise and a carton of two hundred cigarettes, half empty. He smokes continuously. “You very young to be Minister,” he says.
“I am not a Minister,” I say. “Oh.” he says,
“Deputy Minister?”
“No, I’m not. But I am the representative of Her Majesty’s Government, sent to meet you for initial discussions concerning the merchandise.”
“H’m,” he responds, looking a little suspicious. After a short pause, he thrusts a menu in my hand. “Something to eat? A light little lunch?”
Nothing on the menu looks light, so I decide to eat hearty and choose a ‘Garlic Soup, Timber Men’s Style’ followed by a ‘Mydlar Axman’s Chop’ which turns out to be leg of pork. Mr. Slama orders an omelette.
“Stomach fragile,” he says, lighting another cigarette. “So. Your government interested in rare earths, yes?”
I nod my head, trying to spear the dumpling floating in my soup. “
I have many,” he says.
“Good,” I say. “Who is actually the owner of these metals?”
“Russia.” “The Russian government?”
“Military people.” “Military people of the government?”
“More and less,” says Mr. Slama.
“Perhaps you could explain that to me,” I say.
“Don’t worry,” he says, “We meet principal, tonight. 5 star General,” he adds proudly.
“Ah,” I say. “Tonight?”
“Yes. We drive to Hotel Jested. Is not far. You have car?”
“No,” 
“O.K. We hire.” He opens his mobile, which has two scuffed red stars printed on it, and mutters into it.
“Is done,” he says. “You pay with dollars, please.”  We go outside.
Mr. Slama suggests that I should drive. He takes $200 from me, hands $180 to the car-boy and keeps the other twenty. The car is an old Citroen with not very good brakes. After two hours of driving, he says, “Not far, now. Left here, please.” We turn onto a single track road and start climbing interminably up a hillside into wreaths of evening mist. We pass a ski-lift, I negotiate several difficult bends and large rocks in the road. It’s getting darker. I can just see the Hotel Jested at the top of the hill. It looks like an elongated rocket and is round at the base. The car park is on the edge of what appears to be a cliff so I park carefully. There are no other cars. Mr. Slama leads us into the restaurant which is empty except for one table at the back, at which sits a large man in a military uniform with no markings. He heaves himself up and greets us. Mr. Slama does the introductions.
“Colonel Kakonin. Mr. Bryggs from England.”
Colonel Kakonin grunts and sits down. He and Slama talk in Russian for a few minutes, the Colonel shooting a glance at me every now and then. “
The Colonel does not speak English,” says Slama. “So I translate for you. Please to look at the list now.” I produce the list, unfold it and see that it is indeed a list of the rare earths, each with a $ price per gram after it. The Colonel leans over and takes it from me. With a large black pen he laboriously changes one of the prices, increasing it by 50%. He laughs loudly.
“Price change all the time,” says Mr. Slama. “Up.” He laughs and the Colonel laughs again.
“Wodka,” says the Colonel, pushing a glass towards me, which he fills to the brim.
“Thanks,” I say. I raise it to him and say, “Good Luck.”
“Budem!” he shouts and we drink.
“Where are these rare earths currently held?” I ask.
“Switzerland. In special vault. Very safe,” says Slama. The Colonel raps out a few words to him. “Colonel Kakonin wish to know if your government interested to buy.” This is the tricky bit.
“My government is very interested in your merchandise. But we may wish to arrange an exchange of some sort rather than an outright purchase.”
Slama translates this to the Colonel, whose face assumes a stony impassivity. “What kind of exchange?” asks Slama.
“It depends what you are interested in,” I say, warily.
He and the Colonel have a muttered conversation. I take a sip of vodka. “Military?” asks Slama.
“Possibly,” I reply. They mutter again.
“Only exchange possible, is PPRS,” he says. I haven’t the foggiest notion what the PPRS is, so – and I've seen this done in the best spy movies – I take another sip of vodka, put my glass down slowly and murmur,
“Not impossible.”
Mr. Slama translates, but apparently the Colonel has understood. He raises his glass to me and chinks it against mine. Bearing in mind that the Russian militia are selling military hardware to anyone who has a purchase order in hand, the fact that they want to acquire this PPRS must mean it’s something special. In other words, I may have overstepped the mark in so far as my mandate is concerned. Well, there’s no retreating from a situation like this. “My government would like to have sight of documentation you have concerning the title to the merchandise. Is that possible?”
Mr. Slama translates this with a little difficulty. The Colonel turns in his chair. “Karenina!”
From the door behind him a young woman enters. She is wearing thigh length white boots, a black short, tight plastic mini-skirt and matching low-cut blouse. Her blonde hair is cropped and she has a face tattoo of three small red stars. The Colonel says something to her and she turns round and exits slowly.  Slama watches her go with a hungry look on his face, which he quickly conceals when he sees the Colonel watching him. I take another slug of vodka. The girl returns with a sheaf of papers, and then exits slowly again. Slama coughs on his cigarette. The Colonel bends his head down to the papers, carefully selects one, peers at it and then passes it to me. It is written in Kyrillic script which means nothing to me, but it has a large red seal and two flourishing signatures on it. I survey it and nod wisely.
#“Ah,” I say. “May I keep this to show to my Prime Minister?”
Slama asks the Colonel if this is in order. The Colonel looks foxy, and then nods his head.
“You arrange transfer?” asks Slama.
“Certainly,” I reply. A quick glance passes between the Colonel and Slama. The Colonel raises his glass again.
“Good!” he says.
“Good!” I reply.
“Good!” adds Slama.
We chink our glasses across the table and drink. The girl comes back into the room and the Colonel gives Slama a significant look.
“We go now,’ says Slama. ‘Conclude future arrangements later.”
I back the car carefully away from the cliff edge where the mist has now thickened..
“Is Corbusier prizewinner,” says Slama.
“What?”
“Hotel Jested.” I am not paying much attention as the vodka must have been extra strong and also I still need further information. I open the window to get some fresh air and plan to pin Mr.Slama down tomorrow. When we finally get back to Prague, we arrange to meet at 'The Three Violins Cafe' for breakfast in the morning.
The next morning I am reading the menu at 'The Three Violins' and enjoying an early morning coffee. On the back of the menu is a notice which reads:
'Already in the 16th. Century this famous building belonged to the Court Painter of Emperor Rudolf II and violins were made here. It became later the most important violence workshop in Prague.’
Mr. Slama arrives, lights up and orders a huge breakfast. I tell him that I would like to have further documentation concerning the rare earths.
“No problem,” he says and produces a letter which appears to be a confirmation by a Swiss Bank that they hold the merchandise, then another which lists the quantities concerned and a third which gives technical specifications.
“Excellent,” I say, feeling a little surprised.
“Is enough?” he asks.
“I think so.” I'm also thinking that it would be good if I could get an early plane back to London and leave the rest of this negotiation to somebody else who knows about rare earths and the desirable PPRS. The whole thing stinks to me. Slama is very dubious and the Colonel would feature high on my no-no list under any circumstances. And I can’t see a bonus in it. As far as I am concerned the P.M. and Boris can check out the documents and, if they look authentic, get somebody else on the case.
“OK, Mr. Slama,” I say. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. We’ll be in touch.” “Please to remember my fee,” he says. “One per cent, payable in Canary Islands.”
“I’ll certainly mention it to the Prime Minister,” I say.
At Heathrow, I can see Annie waiting for me beyond customs. I go through the green section.
“Everything alright, dear?” asks Annie.
“Fine,” I say. “What’s been happening while I’ve been away? Any scandal?” “No, dear. No scandal. I have to take you straight to the Prime Minister, though.”
“Right.” I notice Annie is looking at me in the rear mirror.
“D’ye know a person called Gareth Leake?” she asks.
The name rings a small bell but for a moment I can’t quite place it. Then I remember. He’s the P.M.’s nephew. A nasty little toad as I recall. He's attached to the P.M’s central office but with no particular job.
“I think I do,” I answer.
“Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing in particular,” she responds cautiously. We are pulling into Downing Street and going through the security gates.
“Och, well,” she says, “Have a nice day.”
What was that about, I wonder. The good Annie was trying to tell me something, but discreetly. Everybody needs to hang on to their jobs in this “flexible workplace” age.
I now have a pass to enter the portals of Number Ten. When I do, I always think of the days when Britain administered its Empire with remarkable statesmen, entrepreneurs who cared nothing for discomfort, the Thin Red Line holding back the borders and the Royal Navy keeping the supply lines open. All settling the problems of the world with an extraordinary confidence. It brings a lump to my throat every time. I wonder what they would think of Jason Bryggs selling off the country's family silver and pulling in a nice bonus for doing so. I push the thought aside because standing in front of me is the awful Gareth Leake, looking as he always does, very pleased with himself.
“Ah, Bryggs,” he says, in the usual sneery way of his class.
“Gareth,” I say. “Keeping busy?”
“Indeed I am. Come this way.” I follow his busy little frame and balding head down the corridor and we enter one of the ante rooms.
“Wait here,” he says.
I sit in an uncomfortable reproduction antique chair from Indonesia, pick up a copy of Peek! Magazine, and look at the grinning celebrities plastered all over its pages. Seems to me an inappropriate magazine for an ante-room in Number Ten. Probably all part of showing the PM comes from an 'ordinary working family' as she puts it. About half an hour passes and Leake re-appears.
“The Prime Minister will see you now,” he says, and we march off down the corridor again.
“Ah, Bryggs,” says the P.M.
Boris is there too and gives me a nod. I notice that Leake has perched himself on the edge of a chair and is obviously not leaving. I begin to hope that he may be the man to handle the Slama affair from now on.
“So,” says the P.M. “What have you achieved?”
I give them my version of the meetings in Prague, leaving out personal descriptions of Slama and the Colonel, the Colonel’s doxy and anything else which I reckon might put them off. I continue to relish the thought that the ghastly Gareth might get involved. I finish my account of the discussions saying that the other side is only interested in doing a deal if something called the PPRS is available in exchange.
“And what is the PPRS?” asks the P.M. frowning.
We all look blank. She calls the Minister for Defence who comes on the speaker. “John,” barks the P.M.
“What’s the PPRS?”
“I beg your pardon, Prime Minister.”
“The P.P.R.S.”
“Ah, the PPRS. Um, could it be the People’s Party for Romanian Socialism?” “No, it could not,” snaps the P.M. “It’s something military. Find out immediately and call me back immediately.”
“What documents did you bring back?” she asks me.
I pass them to her and explain what they are. She looks through them quickly and waves them at Leake who leaps off his chair. “Check these with the appropriate parties.” The obliging Gareth grabs the papers and sits there holding the papers proudly. The Minister for Defence comes back on the speaker.
“Prime Minister,” says he. “The PPRS has a Top Secret classification.”
The P.M. hits a button on her phone and the Minister’s voice goes off the speaker. The P.M. listens attentively and then puts the phone down.
“How the devil is it,” she asks, “that an ex Russian colonel knows more about one of our Top Secret classification items than all of us here?”
Even Boris looks put out.
“In any event,” continues the P.M., “He can’t have it.”
She pauses, narrowing her eyes.
“Or perhaps he can. At least, Version 3.2. Yes! He can have Version 3.2. He can’t possibly know that we now have Version 4.7. There’s a lot of money to be made here."
I hope it includes a decent bonus for yours truly.


BREXIT - HOUSE OF COMMONS PUNCH-UP!
BREXIT - FIRST NEGOTIATIONS
****
BORIS - THE HR REPORT
NEW CABINET CHOICES
The Committee for Economic and Industrial Strategy!!!!
EU REGULATIONS DO NOT APPLY HERE
TRIDENT NUCLEAR SUB - THE P.M. VISITS
MPs - HOW TO READ THEM....
THE NHS - SATAN DOESN'T LIKE IT
****
FOR OUR LADS - THE 'DENTLEY'
****
DICKENS, CONAN DOYLE, CHILD - LOST MANUSCRIPTS re-discovered in old carry-on bag
****
A VISION OF ENGLAND IN 2020.
Out of the EU
Scotland independent
NHS fully privatised
State schools run by business
BBC privatised
Constituency Boundaries changed to suit Tories
90% of workers on zero hour contracts
Workers' employment rights slashed
60% of children live below poverty line
Benefits slashed
45,000 food banks
Prison population increased by 300%
Human Rights Act scrapped
Ditto climate change
VAT increased to 32.5%
Tax Evasion Laws relaxed
Tax avoidance legally accepted
London skyscrapers top world league
27th in prosperity league - down from 9th in 2015
'Suppression of Dissension' Law passed
Passports introduced for all residents north of Watford
Kensington and Chelsea given tax-free status
MPs number 750 and Lords 1000
National Debt reaches £7 trillion
*********
Breaking News!
The Westminster Vigilante Strikes Again!
*************************************
For More Revelations Visit
johnproblem.com
******
AND FOR THE DISCERNING READER: 
'THE GOVERNMENT'S TOP SALESMAN TELLS ALL'
(AS TOLD TO JOHN PROBLEM)
A RIVETING ACCOUNT OF HOW DAVE AND GEORGE SOLD OFF BRITAIN TO PAY THE INTEREST ON THE NATIONAL DEBT.....
Available from Amazon in e-book and paperback.
****
For more books by John Problem
Please see:  
http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B009EPZEQW



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Copyright John Problem.