Brexit promises evaporate. The hot, wet lie-farts of the liar Boris Johnson, trapped in the glamping yurt of his trousers since last year’s referendum, are now contained no more. Europa leans forward decisively, pulls down the foreign secretary’s pants, and sets his foul gases free. And guess what? They stink.

I write on Wednesday backstage in Wolverhampton. On the internet, a blue hat with yellow stars worn by the bullied Queen has infuriated Daily Mail racists. “Western men,” the millinery seems to murmur, “this is the European Union member country of your wives. Your daughters. Your sons. Stand up. Rise up. Demand action. Do not carry on as normal. Cowed.”

David Davis, the Mayonnaise Ewok, who once so bravely lunged at Diane Abbott in the House of Commons bar and heroically pushed his squashed face into Leanne Wood’s personal space on Question Time, melts before the Eurocrats like the frozen Alaskan pipeline that he is, wilting at the negotiators’ pesky figures and facts.

Twelve years ago, the Mayonnaise Ewok paraded his Tory leadership ambition with the support of a brace of young women, wearing tight T-shirts with the words “It’s DD for me” emblazoned across their breasts. I am no expert in brassiere sizing, despite many years of patient study, but I have scrutinised the pictures of Davis’s T-shirted females at length on the internet, and some of them appear to have been exaggerating their qualifications. Is there no end to the Mayonnaise Ewok’s lies?

The fairytale pageantry of the Queen’s speech to parliament, and its supporting cast of colourful fantasy characters – Black Rod, Black Betty, Black Uhuru and Rom Space Knight – suddenly seems like a desperate ritual of hope, meaningless in itself, but designed to appease a capricious demon with dark designs upon our island race.

In London, there is no government. Nationwide, the tarmac melts. At Ascot, men’s dress code is relaxed, a sure sign of disaster. And, unless my hearing is playing up, someone in the queue behind me at Hilton Park services said that our next Tory prime minister will be a tree frog named Jacob. The centre cannot hold.

Are we in the end times? And if so, when Christ Eternal returns, in judgment and great majesty, will we recognise Him?

In the last week, the leftwing commentariat has written a lot of hysterical rubbish about the Conservatives going into partnership with the apparently antediluvian Democratic Unionists. Caroline Lucas, of the Green party, even called them “dinosaurs”, which shows her own ignorance. The DUP don’t actually believe in dinosaurs, so I imagine her clever metropolitan liberal elite insult was just primordial soup off a hadrosaur’s spine fin.

Besides which, the Democratic Unionists’ supposedly backward views on climate change, homosexuality and how old the planet is are in fact no more conservative than those of Comrade Corbyn’s Islamic “friends” in Hamas.

Indeed, I myself was disparaging about the DUP in this very column on this page in this newspaper only last week, comparing their parade-loving membership to a line of plastic religious fundamentalist Warhammer tabletop gaming figurines called the Plague Rats ™.

But like many other liberally minded content providers, currently back-pedalling on comments they may have made about Jeremy Corbyn, I am now happy to admit I was wrong about the DUP; and that I was wrong about that woman from the DUP too; and that it was wrong of me, and, what is more, perhaps a mite sexist, to mention her and the Gruffalo in the same sentence.

It’s hardly surprising I misread the DUP so badly. Like most people outside Northern Ireland, it hadn’t been necessary for me to know or care who the DUP, or any Northern Irish parties, were before last week. So, naturally, I blundered through the 1,100 words of copy I was obliged to submit last Sunday without taking the time and trouble to understand.

Whatever you may think of the DUP they are, first and foremost, like all of us, patriots loyal to this sceptred isle. I suspect their truculence at the Tory negotiating table means they have realised it is up to them to rescue this beloved British island from the incompetent Conservative government incumbent.

The DUP are as English as Arthur and his knights, long silent in loyal subterranean slumber, now stirring to save sweet Albion from the wound it would wreak upon itself.

Many people in Northern Ireland, it is rumoured, do not want to be British. But they are British, whether they like it or not. And as such, they cannot help but embody the most basic British values of this island. Fairness, justice, tolerance, fairness, reading, riting and rithmetic.

Even Sean Fein, the leader of IRA, would agree that if that woman from the DUP chooses to prop up the invalid Tory government, she would be doing a terrible disservice to the island of England that all Irish people see as their mother country.

Jeremy Corbyn realised, in what might otherwise have been the twilight of his leadership, that he needed to step up to the touchline and bat for Britain, instead of nurturing his brown allotment parsnip.

Similarly, that woman from the DUP has realised, as she alone holds the future of this great island of Britain in her twin hands, that she needs to exercise her great power, like The Transformers, with great responsibility.

Heroes come in unlikely forms. And so do messiahs. In refusing to countenance supporting the Conservatives, for whatever her own private and doubtless honourable reasons, could that woman from the DUP herself be an unlikely and unintended hero, an unlikely and unintended messiah?

Cynics would say that that woman from the DUP delays the Conservative majority in order to maintain the soft flow of goods and services across the sea from Belfast to Dublin, or to ensure that Northern Irish homosexuals cannot be as happy as, for example, the Welsh ones. Perhaps that is the case.

But sometimes all of us can become the instruments of Christ without being aware of it. I am not a religious person, but it is my belief that God does not want us to leave the EU, and so He has forced the sword arm of His most loyal and loyalist handmaiden, that woman from the DUP.

When the noble history of the rejection of Brexit is written, that woman from the DUP will be its Joan of Arc, its Maid of Orleans, its John Thomas Scopes and its Harvey Milk, all rolled in to one tenacious little bundle of heroic resistance! Ulster says No!! Girl power!!!