LAST FRIDAY of the year and Y’Boy sitting by he one, looking out the window of the front room of he chirren digs in Twickenham, which part it have the rugby, and wondering what the new year will bring.

And Y’Boy hoping the next one will be better than this one – but knowing that is usually go the other way.

And is not the despair does kill you, eh.

One setta English people like ants on the street below, Christmas shopping and swan and swan, and Y’Boy wondering how mucha them he seeing vote against Jeremy Corbyn and for a Brexit that nobody cyar define yet. And Y’Boy understand Brexit will be whatever Dominic Cummings, the ventriloquist with his hand up the backside of the Boris Johnson PM doll, say it will be.

IN THE SPIRIT of goodwill engendered by the new Brexit bonhomie in Not-So-Great Britain and by the open-ended, open-hearted, God-honest Republicans who prefer KGB dictators to USA Democrats, I’m appointing myself as “secret Santa” for some public figures.

Here, then, are my open presents for some not-so-secret people.

WATCHING THE BRITISH general election unfold – or, more accurately, deflate– over the last few weeks has been like watching England play Test cricket in the 70s (or West Indies, now): everything, no matter how contrived or unlikely, that was required to turn the highest form of sport into the lowest form of farce was, somehow, brought into being, just when it was needed.

Beginning with the beginning.

Inexplicably, the Liberal Democrats and – astoundingly, Labour, doubly hobbled by a serious charge of anti-Semitism and the most unpopular leader of any political party in British history – handed Boris Johnson, for free, the general election that he desperately wanted but could not have got on his own; and in his firetrucking honeymoon period as substitute prime minister, to boot!

SUPPORTERS OF the United National Congress and the People’s National Movement will be arguing for months over who really won Monday’s local government elections, citing numbers of held seats lost, the popular vote, voter turnout etc – but I’m more concerned, today, with next year’s scheduled general election, when 41 people, in some permutation of the UNC and the PNM, must clearly lose a seat in the House of Representatives.

What are those poor, useless future sufferers to do?

In the spirit of goodwill fostered by the parang and thing, I’ve come up with new jobs for the loser boys, based on their House performances.

In the whole House, the most natural Parliamentary/real life skill set match for a new career is easily Colm Imbert, who will go from minister of finance to standup comedian. I know some irresponsible and inconsiderate persons will suggest that he has spent the last five years as finance minister doing exactly that, standup comedy, so it won’t technically be a career change, but I would argue that his most memorable lines – I raise the price of gas three times and they ent riot yet, when the PM made me minister of finance I thought he had to be crazy– show that he has the material and, critically, the delivery to turn everything tragic into hilarity, just by giving it his spin. Of course, he will have to work on his timing. The only possibly insurmountable obstacle between Colm and the pinnacles of standup comedy success is that his prospective audience might not be able to tell when he has actually stood up.

Prime Minister Keith Rowley would expect to be the jefe of something, anything, everything, based on five years of bossing everybody around, but I have applied my gimlet/Gilpin eye and I’ve discerned him at his best, not in Parliament (scarf notwithstanding), but in the living room chat-style public appearances in which he connects sincerely with the common, rank-and-file PNM supporters on the floor of a grubby community centre from an overstuffed armchair on a stage filled with floral arrangements: Keith is a natural as a greeter at what we call a cassy-no, which is a place where very poor people congregate in large numbers to throw away their pennies, en masse, so as to make a handful of very rich people even richer. Keith’s natural charm exudes despite the slightly gruff voice, which might militate against his new job as greeter, except that it’s actually a bonus, because I’ll arrange for him to double his extra income stream by doubling as the casino’s bouncer.

Opposition Leader Kamla Persad-Bissessar House skills allow her to pick from a range of jobs. Obviously, the principal of St Augustine Girls High School must even now be looking nervously over her shoulder, as might be the proprietresses of every upscale gentlemen’s club in Town. But a woman who has lost little of her beauty and none of her charm must be our next high commissioner to the Court of St James. It’s a rarefied atmosphere, the diplomatic swirl of London, but Kamla was to the good manners born; no one will sip inconsequential tea as gracefully.

Marlene McDonald’s particular skills, as revealed in both the House and President’s House, would make her a natural selection for Donald Trump’s next press secretary but her mobile phone management skills would cost her the gig, and more’s the pity, because she has a clear knack for being photographed with companions with distinctive ties.

Attorney-General Faris Al-Rawi would, of course, become a real estate agent to the elite; either that or he could offer VIP tours taking his clients’ teenaged children on exclusive tours of restricted sites, including Facebook page photo-ops, with no follow-up questions.

Barry Padarath, after five years of enduring PNM ultra-macho masking -their-own-insecurity personal attacks, is perfectly trained for cleaning up after spoilt children’s parties at Chuck E Cheese.

Roodal Moonilal is a natural ambassador to Hong Kong, where the tape across his mouth will allow him to blend in with the face-masked protestors. (Neither Franklin Khan nor Suruj Rambachan could get this job because it would require occasionally removing his foot from his mouth.)

Fitzgerald Hinds will have to relocate, for a short time, to the United States to take up the job he’s perfect for: the foreign half of a couple on the new season of 90-Day Fiancé; the fact that he’s already married will only add to his backstory in the show.

Stuart Young will, naturally, take over from Double-G as police commissioner, inheriting even the wardrobe as a perfect fit, but only if he can be persuaded away from Hollywood.

Daryl Smith will settle in nicely in Woodford Square, as executive in charge of the maintenance of the female toilets.

Anthony Garcia doesn’t need a new job because, clearly, he was already cast as stand-in for Robert De Niro in Martin Scorsese’s The Irishman.

Everybody else will all get the same job they showed themselves to be perfectly suited for: when police in Town arrest somebody on a criminal charge, these MPs will get a little something for taking a walk-on, walk-off part in and making up the numbers of identification parades.

BC Pires is a rolodex