"What ho, Jeeves!" I said as I sauntered back into the restful abode, in Berkeley Mansions W1, in the quiet eventide.
"Good evening, Sir," returned the faithful retainer, looking across from the cocktail he was whisking up, to restore the Wooster fibres after a long day on the Continent.
"Well Jeeves," I remarked, flicking a speck of dust from the sleeve, "I certainly gave it to the EU Parliament, what! Told them they had been asking for the day when, armed with the Junior Ganymede club book and a load of lies about immigration, I would finally get Market Snodsbury to withdraw from the European Union. Told the lot of them they had never had a proper job!"
The faithful servant gave a soft, gentle cough. The sort of cough that a sheep might give when standing in a foggy field, watching GK Chesterton fall onto a sheet of tin.
"Well, out with it, Jeeves"
"I'm sorry Sir?"
"What do you have to say? I gather from that cough - and that expression like a stuffed Francois Hollande - that you have something critical to impart?"
"Sir, I have had your friends round to let me know what they think about your performance. I would not like to impart an opinion, but I personally think it was unwise. Oofy Prosser..."
"The Drones Club millionaire, Jeeves?"
"Oofy Prosser must be grateful that I've cleared the way for him to make an absolute bundle?"
"Oofy Prosser thinks you are an idiot who has put his investment fund at risk, Sir. Tuppy Glossop has asked to be removed from the list for your next birthday bash. Your Aunt Agatha says you are a boil. And Rosie M Banks..."
"The romantic authoress and wife of my old friend Bingo Little? She is always one for the bon mot. What aphorism did she come up with this time, Jeeves?"
"She said you are an arse, Sir."
"Jeeves," I said, and pulled myself to the full height. "This is not the way in which to address a preux chevalier. I put it to you that you have betrayed the Code of the Woosters. And you are severely lacking in the feudal spirit. This is the dear Master, Berties Wooster, whom you are addressing in this disrespectful manner."
"Far from it, Sir. I put it to you that you are, in fact, Lord Sidcup. Or - to give you your original name - Roderick Spode."
I looked down at the black footer shorts that I was wearing, where I had expected to see plus fours. I heard the cries of "Heil Spode" from the window. I drained the fragrant cocktail to the dregs.
"You have found me out, Jeeves. Will you call me a cab so I can depart to the Drones Club, there to have a few pints and bemoan the way in which, since I first appeared in the pages of PG Wodehouse, Britain has lost an empire?"
"Very good, Sir."
"Carry on, Jeeves."