Rishi Sunak kicked off his Prada loafers and sprawled out on the sofa. It had been another long day of everything going exactly to plan. The autumn statement in which taxes were going down while still going up. The net migration figures where getting tough on foreigners meant allowing more of them into the country. He couldn’t quite understand why people weren’t more grateful for everything he had done.
A rare half hour with time to kill. Rish! reached for the laptop and began scrolling the Harrods website. He could do with a new suit. Tricky. He couldn’t decide on the fit. Was he a size 8- to 10-year-old? Or 10 to 12? One was too small with the trousers coming halfway up his legs, the other too large. Or were these emotional age groups? In which case he might be better off in the toddler range.
Just as he was verifying his bank details – he’d tried waving his card vaguely at the laptop – there was a knock on the door. It was Oliver Dowden. Rish! smiled. He was glad of the interruption. He could do with some company.
“Hi, Olive,” he said.
“Good to see you Rishster,” the deputy prime minister replied.
“What’s up?”
“Err … like, it’s really heavy,” said Olive. “I think we might have an international incident on our hands. Like, the Greek prime minister, Zorba whatever his name is, is planning to use a few minutes of his hour-long chat with you to ask for the Elgin marbles back.”
“No!”
“Yes. The Greeks have only gone and decided that their decades-old policy of wanting the sculptures returned to the Parthenon is still their policy now. Can you believe it? What a bunch of shits.”
Rish! stood up and paced the room. Now he was really fired up. This was an insult. Not just to the UK as a whole. But to him personally. The Greeks were going to try and embarrass him in public.
Just imagine the shame! After a long conversation about immigration – the Greeks really needed to get their act together on that, it was a disgrace how many people were arriving there by boats – and a few pleasantries about Ukraine and Israel, there would be a harmless exchange in which Kyriakos Mitsotakis asked for the marbles and he said no. There was no place for that kind of adult diplomacy in his Tory government. What on earth would halfwits like Lee Anderson and Brendan Clarke-Smith say?
“This just can’t happen, Olive,” said Rish!. He could feel another hissy fit coming on. Perhaps even a full-on temper tantrum. They were getting more and more frequent.
“Quite right, Rishster,” Dowden shouted. “We can’t have the Greeks coming over here and walking all over us with their reasonableness. Hell, we didn’t leave the EU to have grownup international relations with our neighbours. Where was the fun in that? The whole point was to run down the economy and to make fun of foreigners. Putting the Little back into Great Britain.
“What’s more, I’ve been disrespected,” Rish! pouted. “There is a pecking order in the list of global leaders and the Greek bloke is well below me. His country isn’t even in the G20. So he doesn’t get to decide what we talk about. I do. There’s only one thing for it. Cancel the meeting!”
Sunak grabbed the phone and searched the contacts. G for Greek Man. He started texting. “Soz we now can’t meet. I’m decorating the Christmas tree. But you can’t have your fucking marbles. We stole them, so they are ours. Now run along. What bit of piss off don’t you get? PS: If you’re really desperate you can have a chat with Olive instead.”
Within seconds there was a reply. “Have it your own way. It will be far easier to get the marbles back by talking to George Osborne at the British Museum. Or Lord Big Dave. Neither gives a fuck whether they stay in the UK. And if it’s OK, I’ll pass on seeing Olive. He’s even more useless than you. K”
Olive and Rish! high-fived each other and celebrated with a Diet Coke. This was more like it. Living on the edge. Just watch the whole of the UK congratulate them on their tough negotiations. They weren’t going to be pushed around. Oh no. Tough on foreigners. Tough on the causes of foreigners.
An hour later, an anxious looking Jeremy Hunt barged in. Had they heard? The Greek prime minister had driven a JCB down the A303 and dug up Stonehenge. And was now in the process of loading it on to a plane at Stansted. Something had to be done.
“There’s only one thing for it,” Rish! declared. “We’ll have to declare war on Greece. Call Grant Shapps at defence and get him to send our aircraft carrier to the Aegean. And we’ll need the SAS.”
Olive could barely contain his priapism. He had been gagging for a good war. The excitement of his own self-importance. It was worth other people dying for this. The Tory right would be thrilled. As would the whole country. Rejoice! Rejoice! This could change the whole election.
“Right, chaps,” squeaked Olive. ‘We’re going into Corfu. They play cricket already so they must subconsciously want to be invaded by us.”
“OK,” said Rish!, putting on the combat jersey President Zelenskiy had given him. “While we’re about it, let’s also go to war with Spain. Time to make Gibraltar British.”
“Umm,” mumbled Jezza. “It already is British.”
“You’re kidding! Well, let’s invade it anyway. Just to make sure.”
Just then the phone rang. It was Javier Milei in Argentina. He was taking back the Falklands and installing Liz Truss as governor.
“Cut our one aircraft carrier in half.” Rish! ordered. “And send the stern to the South Atlantic. There’s no time to lose.”
Depraved New World by John Crace (Guardian Faber, £16.99). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy and save 18% at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
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A year in Westminster: John Crace and Marina Hyde live in London and online.
On Monday 11 December 8pm–9.30pm GMT, join John Crace, Marina Hyde and Pippa Crerar for a livestream discussion on another year of anarchy in British politics.
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