With our Article 50 notification now just a hair's breadth away, we can expect today some spectacular last-minute disruptions. Satan's little sex-toy to the North will probably announce a new independence referendum, just as US fracking is making third-stage extraction from the North Sea increasingly uneconomic. Soros and his little helpers will throw money at QCs in an effort to use the law to scupper Parliament. The BBC will no doubt find reasons to announce today some dire economic forecasts amid tones of general gloom. Little Owen Jones may offer free blowies to Brexiteers who recant, Lily Allen will give away copies of her dire new album, currently bombing, and even Lord Geldof may emerge to sneer at, shower with spittle and swear at the common folk before his carers get him back into his bath chair.
None of which should make the slightest difference to the Brexit Bill. If it clears its stages today unamended, I can think of no greater gift to our Sovereign Lady than to submit the Bill for Royal Assent allowing the Prime Minister to give Brussels our formal notice tomorrow.
There will be a general screeching from Farringdon as a distraught Polly Toynbee dribbles salty snot over a wailing Suzanne Moore's velvet kitten heels. Some hopeless little bloke called Farron will call all the TV stations ( "there's some bloke called Dim Pharom on the line ... yeah, third time he's called ... OK, we'll bar the number" ) Gina Miller will vow revenge on the British people and devote her remaining fortune to keeping members of the bar in Claret, and in Brussels the pressed duck (four fat Flemish ducks for each Commissioner, reduced to a cube the size of a fag packet by a powerful hydraulic press, a favourite dish served by Herr Juncker) will regorge and repeat acidly into the night.
Here, I'll pop the caps on a brace of Sekt bottles cooling in the fridge. If it happens.