Rishi Sunak closed the door on the final stragglers. It had been a good idea of his to invite every Tory MP to a pre-Christmas drinks party at Downing Street to celebrate another exhilaratingly successful year in government. He had never known a Conservative party that had been so united behind its leader. And he had just about managed to prevent Mark Francois from making an impromptu speech while necking a bottle of vodka.
It had been wonderful to see so many happy faces. Even all those MPs who were facing charges of rape and sexual assault had managed to have a laugh. And how good of Scott Benton to make an appearance before he went off on a well-deserved 35-day holiday. If only more MPs had the wit to lobby on behalf of gambling firms. Betting was the only way out of poverty for most Britons these days. He was proud to lead a government of such professionalism, integrity and accountability.
Last to leave had been James Cleverly. Of course he had. Jimmy D had become unexpectedly emotional as he said goodbye. Wiping away a tear and giving him a manly hug. “I don’t suppose we’ll be doing this again next year,” he had sobbed. Rishi hadn’t been at all sure what he had meant by that, but he had given him a reassuring pat on the back anyway.
Oliver Dowden had thoughtfully offered to remain behind to help clear up. It was so nice to have staff you could rely on. As Olive took out the dirty glasses, Rishi sat back in an armchair. What a great year it had been. Prices becoming more unaffordable. Just a little more slowly. The economy going nowhere. People struggling to pay their mortgages. Hospital waiting lists getting longer. This was a Britain anyone could be proud of.
Best of all, he was still going to be prime minister in 2024. UK prime minister 2022-24 would look so much better on his CV than UK prime minister 2022-23. No one would now think he had just been doing work experience. Fuck you, Liz Truss.
What was not to love about life?
“Do make yourself a cup of hot chocolate and come and have a chat,” said Rishi as Olive finally finished the tidying. “I’ve got some exciting news.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve decided not to bother to replace the disabilities minister.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Olive replied hesitantly.
“It’s better than good. It’s brilliant. I came into this job because I believe in public service. I wanted to give something back to this country. Though not in tax obviously …”
“Obviously.”
“So I’ve decided that having a disabilities minister sends out the wrong message. It suggests we think disabled people have special needs. Are different in some way. When what we should be doing is letting them know we think they are skiving in some way. Just scrounging. What we want is for them to make more effort to be like us.”
“I see …”
“Now, Olive. Before you go. I want you to be really honest with me. What one thing would really help me win over the public more?”
Olive took a deep breath. “Well, your poll ratings are magnificent. Up there with Boris when he was forced to resign. But apart from being generally less useless, maybe it would help if you didn’t come across as so out of touch, entitled and tetchy.”
“I am not fucking tetchy. Who keeps saying I’m tetchy? I can’t help being right about everything. Now fuck off before I sack you, you miserable doormat.”
By the next morning, Rishi was in a good mood again. An hour on the Peloton had done him the world of good and he had a Zoom call booked with Giorgia Meloni. He hadn’t forgotten that the Italian prime minister had been the only world leader to talk to him at the G7 summit when he had been left hanging around like Billy No-Mates. And she had even bothered to turn up to his entirely pointless AI summit earlier in the year. No one else had. So he owed her one.
“Buongiorno, Rishi,” beamed Meloni. “It will be so good to see you in Rome this Saturday. The Brothers of Italy convention is always a high spot of the year for me. Everyone most people would least like to meet will be there.”
“Er … yes,” said Rishi. “How can I put this delicately … ? It won’t be too … well … fascisty, will it? Obviously I’m fine with a bit fascisty, but nothing too over the top. No swastikas or hymns to Mussolini or anything like that?”
Giorgia laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s not like the old days! I’ve also had to manage my reputation. Now it’s all just fascist-lite. Hey! We’re all neo-fascists now, aren’t we? No uniforms required. Just wall-to-wall men and women in suits with extremely unpleasant far-right views. Recently we’ve had Steve Bannon and Viktor Orbán. Lovely men. There might be the odd rally, but mainly just speeches attacking immigrants. You’ll fit right in. And the food is great!”
“That’s amazing, Giorgia,” gushed Rishi, the relief evident. “Grazie, as I think you say in Spanish. I really can’t wait. We’ve got so much to talk about. Especially on immigration. I know you hate foreigners almost as much as I do.”
“Sì, sì,” Meloni nodded. “I am so impressed by you Britons. We only have a treaty to deport refugees to Albania. Where’s the fun in that? Some of them are even almost happy there. But you. You send them to Rwanda. Now there’s a country. One with a track record of murdering refugees. Of sending rape and death squads into a neighbouring country. And all possible because you had the genius idea of passing a law that bypassed the supreme court by saying a safe country could be any one you wanted it to be. Hats off, my dear friend.”
“You’re too kind, Giorgia, It’s going to be fun.”
“And as a special guest, we’ve got Elon Musk dropping in. He’s promised he would be doing job interviews for soon to be unemployed world leaders in the afternoon.”
“You think of everything. Ciao for now.”
John Crace’s book Depraved New World (Guardian Faber, £16.99) is out now. To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy and save 18% at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply
