THE Union Unit was meeting for the first time under its new commander: Brigadier Oliver Lewis, sometime friend of General Cummings (missing in action) and the latter’s batman during the heroic Battle of the Brexit. Lewis also wore the Order of the Red Wall for his commando raids in the north during the 2019 election campaign. “Today, gentlemen,” he began in gruff Churchillian tones, “today we take back Scotland!”

The unit was meeting in the deep underground bunker under Whitehall famously used by Churchill during the Second World War. Brigadier Lewis thought it would set the right tone for the struggle against the insurgent Jocks if he moved his HQ there. Besides, there were no longer any tourists visiting the bunker since General Matt “Cock-Up” Hancock had lost 100,000 dead on the Covid Front. But as Field Marshall Boris could admit no wrong, Hancock was still at his post.

The staff round the green baize table were nervous. Brigadier Lewis was methodically reading a draft advertisement for new Union Unit civil service recruits. The heading was “Don’t Panic” and “Your Country Needs You” – under a grinning picture of Field Marshall Boris wearing a tin hat. Lewis looked up suddenly, with a scowl: “Who wrote this nonsense?”

A sheepish hand went up at the end of the table. It was Fortescue-Smythe, the Deputy Underling for Fetching the Tea.

“Let me quote what you have written, dogsbody,” hissed the Brigadier. “It says candidates should ‘demonstrate independence of thought’. Independence, Fortescue-Smythe! Bloody independence! Are you off your head? Independence is the last thing we want to promote. You’re fired!” As Fortescue-Smythe’s limp body was carried out, the Brigadier realised he needed to raise morale. “OK, chaps. Let’s kick around for some ideas as to how we can outwit the Jocks. Who’s first?” The only lady chap present raised her hand tentatively: “Why don’t we send a royal to live in Edinburgh. The Scots are loyal to the Crown. And it would save on royal train fares when there’s a rugby match at Murrayfield.”

“Good idea, Miss … er, Miss. But which royal have we spare since Andrew blotted his copybook and Harry pissed off to California with the actress?” After 10 minutes of silence, the chapess ventured a certain Prince Edward.

“Who the hell is that?” thundered Brigadier Lewis, who counted himself well up on the royal family as he read Hello magazine when visiting his dentist. It turned out that Edward was 11th in succession and a failed TV producer. “Never heard of him,” the Brigadier sniffed, “but it might work.”

There were smiles all round. But then the Brigadier’s face hardened: “Nope. Anyone we send up there inevitably goes native inside six months. If we give this Edward blighter a palace in Edinburgh just across the road from their toy Parliament, it won’t be long before that Nicola woman is dropping in for tea and scones every day. Before you know it, Eddie will want to be king of the Scots and start leading those All Under One Banner marches.”

There was a gloomy silence as everyone thought of Operation Big One, the plan for a year of mourning events, when You Know Who finally departs Buck House forever. But no-one was willing to mention the subject in public, even if the thought of 365 days of Daily Mail front covers showing pictures of a Certain Royal Personage would knock that Sturgeon off the news agenda.

“I’ve got it!” exclaimed the Brigadier. “We’ll put Baron Michael Forsyth on Question Time every Thursday till the Scots are driven bonkers and stop wanting independence, so he’ll go away.

"Now we’ve appointed Richard Sharp as the BBC boss, we can pull a few strings. Sound chap is Mr Sharp. Former banker of course, and an Oxford man. Big Tory donor. He’ll make sure there’s no bias at Broadcasting House.”

Not many round the table knew who Michael Forsyth actually was but they deferred to the Brigadier’s inside information. After all, the Brigadier was responsible for fighting the Battle of the Brexit, and that had worked out well.

THUS encouraged, a certain Algernon Tarquin Temples-Nithercott, a bright young thing seconded from the Treasury, ventured his own pet scheme. “I wonder,” he said clearing his throat, “if we should do more with the jolly old Union Flag. Wonderful stuff that Starmer chappie has started using the Flag in his Labour Party broadcasts. Can’t we run up the Union Flag everywhere in Scotland, you know?”

Much effort then went into deciding where the Union Flag could be flown in Scotland. As the Scots loved football, someone suggested a place called Celtic Park. That led to discussion of a plan for having only one all-British national football team. “Well, moving on …” said the Brigadier. “I think the time has come to consider what we Brits are really good at. Traditional British values. Deception. Dirty tricks. Think Amritsar. Think Croke Park. The Black and Tans. Our coup in Iran. Mad Mitch in Aden. The 77 Brigade. If you can’t play the ball, play the man.”

The Brigadier’s appeal to traditional British values brought tears to his eyes and roused the young fogeys of the Union Unit to a patriotic frenzy. They stood up spontaneously to sing Rule Britannia, belting out the third (amended) verse:

Oh! grant that Marshal Gove

May by thy gracious aid Victory bring;

May he sedition hush, And like a torrent rush

Rebellious Scots to crush, And Brussels ding!

Now the ideas flowed thick and fast. Setting up fake pro-independence Twitter sites to sow discord among the Nats. Nobody would twig that one.

Funding impecunious English academics to produce bogus studies suggesting an independent Scotland would be crippled by debt of £18 trillion per person and thrown out of the Commonwealth, UN, and the International Federation of Tiddlywinks Players.

Spreading rumours that after independence Scots would not be able to watch Question Time on the “English” BBC. “That’ll fix them!” cried the Brigadier triumphantly.

A hand went up at the back. It was the chapess again. “Excuse me sir, but I’ve heard that the independence movement in Scotland is getting concerned by divisions in its ranks. They have even set up a new organisation called Now Scotland to promote unity in action. How should we counter that?”

The Brigadier sucked on his unlit pipe for a moment then gave the room the benefit of his wisdom: “The Jocks are a clever lot, no doubt about it. But they have a fatal flaw compared to the Mother Nation. They have a streak of rational self-doubt. We, on the other hand, are the most arrogant people on the planet. That’s how we got our first empire and now how we’ll get out second. The Scots will never be united. In the end we can count on them fighting each other. The Union Unit just has to stir the pot, so to speak.”

There was silence for a moment, then the chapess raised her hand again: “But Brigadier, what if the Scots unite against us?”