Where the Isle of Wight goes, Britain will follow
[into poorly-equipped care homes]
Even now a hand-written letter is Winging its Way to No.10 from the Isle of Wight:
Most esteemed Supreme Helmsman, 
I am so glad to learn that you have recovered from your recent ordeal.  It must have been mortifying for you to have to come into contact with all those darkies.  I am sure you will soon be able to send ’em all packing again—back to Bongo-Bongo Land where they belong, eh! 
Jolly good show about the new arrival, too—perhaps you will be able to remember this one, although a mnemonic might come in handy, like one of these new-fangled “passwords”  they have nowadays.
- How do you mean, an “app”?
- How do you mean, “download”?
- What might “Bluetooth” be When It’s At Home (as it should be, like other Responsible Citizens), and however might one “enable” it? Will it still work with dentures?
- How do you mean, “mobile phone”? Does it resemble my stairlift at all?
I enclose what I believe is known as a “selfie”—I trust the stain will dry out.
Oh well, at least we’ve got our bendy bananas back at last!
With obsequious, nay deluded, gratitude—in eager anticipation of your guidance,
sent via Basildon Bond with Parker pen
[Whatever happened to quill and vellum?—The Haunted Pencil]
 Better known by his formal names, diligently chronicled by his faithful amanuensis Stewart Lee.
 Again, the Brezhnev joke comes to mind.
 Cf. the infamous Paul Foot story.
 For historical perspective, see They come over ‘ere… and the above-mentioned Stewart Lee on the UKIPs.
 Cf. the Snow White joke.
 Dick Shot Off.