Dominic Raab hadn’t had the best of nights. His sleep had been broken by repeated nightmares. Him being nice to people. In one he had even dreamed he had befriended an asylum seeker. It was disturbing to find the liberal wokerati had forced their way into his subconscious. This just wouldn’t do. Much more of this and he’d become a paid-up member of the Blob.
Time to start acting like a real man again. He tossed the duvet to one side and got out of bed. He stared in the mirror lovingly as he oiled his biceps. Hard. So hard. They could take a man down with a single blow. Or a woman. Psycho wasn’t misogynistic. He’d hit anyone. His fists were equal opportunities employers.
Next, on with his favourite budgie smugglers. His sequined posing pouch. No winky shrinkage for him. God, he really was a great catch. His family and friends didn’t know how lucky they were. Finally, the morning fix of steroids. His life. His wife. He reached for the syringe and tenderly pushed the needle into his thigh. He pressed down the plunger and was overwhelmed by that familiar, comforting sensation. That feeling of power that came with infinite rage. No one could reach him here. Dom’s safe space.
Just then Psycho’s phone rang. It was the prime minister.
“Um, yo, Dom,” stammered Rish! Sunak. “How are you doing, man?”
“Never better,” the Raabster spat back. “Just get on with it. What’s the score?”
“Er, well … you see … It’s like this. I’ve been re-reading Adam Tolley’s report again overnight … and it would be really helpful if you could, er … resign?”
“You’re fucking kidding me, you fucking fuck. You’re really taking that piece of shit report at face value? You and I both know it’s a total fucking establishment stitch-up.”
“Er … I thought we were the establishment …” Rish! observed.
“Don’t be so blind,” screamed Psycho. “Our whole English way of life is under threat if someone in a senior position isn’t allowed to bully someone junior. And if you can’t see that then I’ll have to come round to Downing Street to flush your head down the toilet again.”
“But the thing is, Dom, I sort of did promise to govern with integrity. And though I obviously never meant that to apply to you, it would be more embarrassing not to sack you than to sack you. I’ve done my best for me. I mean you. I phoned Tolley to see if he would consider changing ‘The minister was intimidating and persistently aggressive’ to ‘The minister was not intimidating or persistently aggressive’ but he was adamant he wouldn’t change a word. So I’m a bit stuck. The thing is, no one really likes you. They think you’re a twat.”
“So that’s it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You’re going to regret this big time. Your dog won’t last the day.”
Psycho hung up. Time to take the initiative by writing his own letter of resignation. He’d make sure to go down as gracelessly as possible. Fighting all the way to the bottom. Staying on brand at least.
“Dear prime minister.” He could barely write that “Dear”. On to the substance. Yes, he knew that he’d once said he would resign if the bullying allegations were upheld, but he’d never imagined that a KC from the liberal elite would conclude that publicly humiliating civil servants would count as bullying.
What was the world coming to? Next, someone would say that using junior members of staff as a punch bag was out of order. Or killing someone, for instance. Would no one allow for accidents in the workplace any more? Health and safety gone mad. God knows, Psycho had killed a few people in his time. And there might well be a few more before the day was out.
Then there was the fact that only two of the bullying complaints had been upheld. That meant he had got away with at least six. And shouldn’t a minister be allowed a free pass on his first two charges? Especially as civil servants these days couldn’t take any criticism that involved bodily harm. Woketards the lot of them. And weren’t all complaints meant to be registered within three months? That would have been ideal. Because when the Raabster bullied someone they stayed bullied. Most ended up in a psychiatric hospital unable to speak with PTSD for at least a year.
Yeah, that was sticking it to the prime minister. To think he’d once been Rish!’s cheerleader-in-chief during his leadership campaign. His deputy prime minister. Sunak had turned out to be a softy like all the others. Cuthbert Cringeworthy. A sack of shit. Just another feeble apologist. Would no one stick up for GBH? God stand up for bastards.
Psycho was on a roll. The Daily Telegraph wanted more of his resignation nonsense and he was thrilled to oblige. No, he wasn’t sorry for anything. He had done nothing wrong. It had all been a leftwing media plot to remove the most talented politician of his generation. The only man standing who still believed in Ultra Violence. Just a normal guy who believed in the right to bully anyone. It was the thin end of the wedge. First they had come for him. Next they would come for Michael Gove’s crack den on his department roof.
Back in No 10, Sunak had had the security detail doubled. Just in case Psycho reappeared. When he felt the coast was clear, he put out a statement of his own. He had done the right thing. The brave thing. By sacking the Raabster. Who was a moral man. Of course he was. But had just narrowly crossed the line by bullying everyone he had ever worked with.
Rish! then announced Alex Chalk as the new justice minister and Oliver Dowden as deputy prime minister. Ideal fits. Chalk was hopeless and wet as they come, so he’d do no damage. And couldn’t do any worse than Dom who’d driven the department into the ground. As for Dowden, the thinking man’s Chris Philp, he had his head so far up everyone’s arse, he hadn’t seen daylight for weeks.
Psycho reached again for the comfort of the syringe, before applying camo paint to his face and donning a balaclava. He was off to Dover to see if he could stop a few asylum seekers arriving in small boats. Permanently. He would have to take his pleasures where he could find them from now on.
