After the tumultuous political events of 2019, only a complete idiot would predict what’s going to happen now. But that’s never stopped me before, so here is Old Hernon’s Almanac for 2020 and into the new decade.
Boris will marry for the third time, this time to Carrie Symonds who during the election campaign actually did behave impeccably by staying out of the limelight.
They will wed in Sunderland as part of the PM’s new-found and election-winning commitment to the North and their reception will be held in the Wheeltappers and Shunters Social Club. Unless they realise that it is a 1970s TV invention.
Either way, they will honeymoon in the sun-splashed semi-tropical paradises of Redcar and Blyth Valley before knuckling down to “get Brexit done” from the hell-holes of St Tropez, Mustique and, what the hell!, Phuket.
Boris will sack everyone who ever said a bad word about his “bestie” Donald Trump, harrumph around TV studios world-wide telling viewers the BBC is rubbish, ignore sick children, tell the Scots where not to get off, and play with Lego.
He will, initially at least, set aside money for new hospitals/creches/police stations/old folks’ homes/schools/lap-dancing clubs/massage parlours across the North and Midlands, in line with his election “promises.”
Until the Home Counties kick up, that is. Former Tory voters on the mean streets of Tunbridge Wells, Surbiton and Godalming point out that they have been starved of cash to provide decent after-care for staff, good access to the Channel ports and decent discounts on champagne.
They take to the streets, bellowing: “No. No. No more!” And threaten to take their votes, tax evasion forms and Range Rovers elsewhere. In local government elections the Socialist Workers’ Party take Guildford.
To everyone’s surprise, Boris reneges on his election promise but pledges to heal the “South-North Divide.”
Meanwhile, Jeremy Corbyn tends his allotment, having convinced himself and (almost) two or three others that Labour’s worst election defeat for almost a century proved that he had “won the argument.”
After suffering a soil-based ailment, he strongly denies that he has ever succumbed to a dose of antihistamine, insisting that there is not a racist bone in his body. His successor, whoever she is, loses the next election.
Jo Swinson opens a refuge for failed Lib Dem politicians – and is swiftly committed herself to the secure wing.
And Nigel Farage forms a new party based, in a break with recent history, purely on himself, driven by the poverty he now faces without his stonking big expense account from the EU.
You heard it here first.