Maggie May was beginning to get very tired of listening to Brexit whingers and EU bullies.
Once or twice she had peeped into The Guardian, but it had no complimentary articles about her, “and what is the use of a newspaper,” thought Maggie, “without pictures or my conversations with world leaders?”
So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with shifty eyes ran close by her.
After the election, there was nothing so very remarkable in that, nor did Maggie think it so very much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late to sign my next Executive Order!” But when the Rabbit actually took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket and looked at it and then hurried on, Maggie started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and, burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it and was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole, under the hedge. In another moment, down went Maggie after it!
The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well.
Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time, as she went down, to look about her. First, she tried to make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and shelves; here and there she saw maps of China hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed. It was labelled “NIGEL FARAGE,” but, to her great relief, it was empty.
Down, down, down! Would the fall never come to an end? There was nothing else to do, so Maggie soon began talking to herself. “Winston’ll miss me very much to-night, I should think!” (Winston was the cat.) “I hope they’ll remember his saucer of milk at tea-time. Winston, my dear, I wish you were down here with me!” Maggie felt that she was dozing off, when suddenly, trump! trump! down she came upon a heap of sticks and empty promises, and the fall was over.
Maggie’s ego was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up in a moment. Before her was another long passage and the White Rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it. There was not a moment to be lost. Away went Maggie like the wind and was just in time to hear it say, “Oh, my hairpiece and whiskers, how late it’s getting!” She was close behind it when she turned the corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen.
She found herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging from the roof. There were doors all around, marked “Mexicans”,“Refugees”, and “Extreme Vetting”, but they were all locked; and when Maggie had been down one side and up the other, trying every door, she began to wonder how she was ever to get out again.
Suddenly she came upon the White Rabbit, who was smiling slyly and giving her the thumbs up. “My dear,” the Rabbit smirked, “Come and hold my hand and walk with me to my press conference.” But later, remembering what her mother had taught her, Maggie was careful to stay at paws length from the White Rabbit, who spoke unctuously about a vibrant special relationship that might lead to a vibrantly special trade deal – just so long as Maggie did what she was told.
They talked in ever decreasing circles: about security and intelligence cooperation, democratic freedom and global prosperity, women’s rights, Brexit, and NATO. But later, when Maggie was recalling her strange adventure in wonderland, she found that they had only ever spoken of shoes and ships and sealing-wax, of cabbages and kings, and why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings.
“Curiouser and curiouser!”, cried Maggie. “Perhaps opposites don’t attract after all! Off with his head!” Or was it, “He’s off his head!”? We may never know.