As the final echo of the Vote Leave battle bus dies away amongst the villages and byways of England's south west, a strange chant rises in its place. Jacob Rees-Mogg MP, Conservative Party spokesperson for South West England, pauses in his piece-to-camera for a German film crew investigating Roman tin mines, listens, then shakes his head. "Never mind," he says to the director. But as the crew ready themselves for a re-take, a battered green Land Rover draws up and a familiar local official emerges.
"Not now, Arnold."
But the man steps forward, flat cap held nervously in front. A faint breeze brings with it the hum of "We want our grants!" and catches the man's exposed comb-over so that it stands up like a horse-hair plume on a Roman soldier's helmet.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir."
The Germans begin filming.
"Not now, I say."
"It's about the three fifty million, sir."
"Yes, yes," Rees-Mogg snaps, trying to focus on the camera. "Boris has it in hand."
"That's what we're worried about, sir."
Rees-Mogg waves him away. "It's a figure of speech, man. Can't you see I'm working?"
"Not all of us are lucky enough to have jobs, sir."
"Look, we have years to worry about that, but a week to complete this film about the region's economic heyday before the funding from Brussels runs out. We can discuss it later."
"That's not what the gentleman from the Commission used to say - "
"Go away! Please!"
"- he were very responsive."
Rees-Mogg heaves a sigh and says to the German. "Sorry, we can edit all this out."
"The Cornish are restless, sir," Arnold persists.
Rees-Mogg sighs again, "It was ever thus," he says, partly for the German director's benefit. "Look," he says, turning to Arnold, "Explain to them that it was written in letters three feet high and thirty feet long that all the money would be spent on the National Health Service. So if they want their share, they should jolly well get sick."
"I could tell 'em that, sir. But I don't think they'll be very pleased."
"Well, then they can call Boris."
"Now go away."