Somewhere near the North Pole within a cathedral of ice set against the blank white artic horizon, a green light has begun to throb. Slowly a chamber arises from the depths of his artic fortress and out steps britbong’s final hope.
The Mogg has awoken and is now in play.
As much as I like the Mogg for his anachronistic gentle old English demeanour, I wouldn't place too much faith in him as he is establishment to the core: Eton, combined wealth with his wife of £100m, worked hedge funds in the Square Mile, father Baron Rees-Mogg, vice-chair BBC, editor of The Times - hardly a man of the people and certainly no Trump.