I know you've been dying to know what's been happening in Europe's crappest political soap opera. Well you need wait no longer. Here is BELGIANA, PT II.
Previously on Belgiana:
Open VLD, the party that sounds like heart surgery, sulked the government out of existence for the 412th time this century over an electoral constituency the size of Neasden. Head Potato Monsieur Leterme attempted to resign for the third time. Vlaams Belang sang a jolly song. The King was shockingly forced to return from holiday.
We need some theme music really. Here, this will do. Though Belgo-politico-purist wonks will prefer this.
King Albert appoints temporary crisis Potato Monsieur Reynders to sort everything out. Confidence levels hover around erm, the Dead Sea. The temporary crisis potato gives up after about 24 hours attempting to reason with everyone and failing.
(M. Reynders being shunned by all sides in a remarkable show of cross-party unity)
The king reluctantly accepts M. Leterme's resignation. It's au revoir, not adieu M. Leterme. On past history, we can assume you will be Prime Minister again within 6 months, older, more tuber-like, and distinctly not wiser.
We all wonder what will happen next, while not really caring. The papers focus almost exclusively on how rubbish the King's mobile phone is.
However! SECRETLY, the king decides that the only way to decide who should rule Belgium, following various unfortunate incidents involving wildly inaccurate televised maps (upside-down? Giving Wallonia a coastline?), is to get everyone to DRAW it. His initial attempt to select a candidate on the basis of who sang the national anthem best failed as, out of five candidates, 1 sang La Marseillaise, 3 ça plane pour moi, and 1 Jacques Brel's Knokke La Zoute Tango.
First redesign of the kingdom comes from the Flemish moderates.
The Francophones get a go too.
Vlaams Belang go a bit mental, but get points for mad lion drawing skillz.
In despair, the King establishes a committee for redesigning the political frontiers of Belgiana. The committee, after long deliberation, comes up with this:
The King asks the political classes what to do about BHV, using the medium of black marker pen.
(It's ours, bitchez)
(Enfin, c'est une évidence. Le BHV se trouve dans la rue de Rivoli, Paris 1er. DONC C'EST FRANCOPHONE, BANDE DE NAINS).
3. Vlaams Belang:
(The lion is hungry. NOM).
BHV to be sold to the Ariane European space programme and fired onto one of the seven moons of Saturn for research purposes.
Despair and chaos reigns once more.
What will happen next? Are we heading inexorably towards an election? Does anyone care? Should we eat the political class of potatoes with mayonnaise, or sauce americaine?
Cue the dramatic credits music!