THAT morning in 2016 will stay with me for the rest of my life. Strafed by Brussels’s Stukas, I weaved desperately down the country lines to the polling station.
My fellow commandos – my wife Heather, her sister Geraldine, their great-aunt Esther – were packed into my military-issue Rover 75 with me. Crack troops all of them, willing to lay down their lives for their country.
We lost the Stuka behind a particularly tall hedgerow and breathed a sigh of relief. Too soon. Up ahead loomed an EUSSR roadblock staffed by multilingual fascists armed and ready to make us swap our pens for easily-amended pencils.
‘Gun it,’ screamed Esther, and I jammed down the accelerator as she provided covering fire through the rear passenger window. A Spaniard was thrown into a hedge and I heard the gurgle of ‘Ach, Britisher svinehund,’ as a German died.
But at the next roadblock, they were ready for us. Machine-gun fire raked the car, tearing the hell out its sandstone leather interior and Esther’s throat. ‘Leave me,’ she croaked, as I slipped her a grenade so she could take some with her. She would not die in vain.
From then on we were on foot, avoiding Remainer patrols. I saw a man executed on the spot for carrying a photo of Farage in his wallet. I saw a family dragged off to life internment in Luxembourg for referring to Project Fear.
Finally we reached the polling station. Nothing stood between us and the referendum. Until the EU-boat surfaced in the playground.
‘VOTE!’ I screamed, and we frantically made our crosses as the torpedoes streaked toward us. We barely threw ourselves clear in time. But we’d done it. We’d defied the dictators and voted Leave.
‘I hope Boris remembers this, and uses it as a lesson for other nations fighting for freedom in years to come,’ I remember remarking. ‘Yes,’ said my wife, loyally. And he has.