'Bonjour Emmanuel, j'ai un peu de difficulte, Brexit-wise, avec les tete-bangeurs de l'ERG.'
'Very good, mon ami, but let's parler anglais. You'll find it easier.'
'Right, well, look, You know that I know as well as you know that Brexit is a merde-show, and that no-deal is even merder. But if I do a deal, those ERG-ers are going to come looking for my guts pour faire les garters.'
'Ne t'inquiete pas. I have an idea. We give them a petite saveur.'
'Of what, French cooking? I can't see how that'll work. Still, I suppose anything's worth a try. But no garlic.'
'Non! Non! A petite saveur of no-deal!'
'You mean confront them with reality! Mmmm, never thought of that, but how?'
'Well. This new variety of the Covid virus that is making you British get your culotte un peu twiste par le present. What if I were to use that as an occasion pour fermer the border. Proteger la France! Take back control, as you might say.'
'Mmmmm, yes. Lorries grind to a halt, park on every verge and pavement in Kent, village gardens turned to public toilets, impenetrable tailbacks miles long! Any Brits not driven mad by Brexit might start wondering if the ERG-ers are barmy!'
'And the opposition to a deal va disparaitre dans les airs.'
'Vanish into thin air! Like Brexit promises the morning after the referendum. Brilliant! Why hadn't I thought of that?'
'Do you want me to answer that question'
'Er, no. Tu m'as sauvee la vie! Ferme la porte, et les ports, of course. Merci, Emmanuel.'
'Je t'en prie. Bye, bye no-deal. Hello surrender, er, pardon, world-beating agreement. Au revoir.'