The United Kingdom, February 2024. A cold wind blew down Whitehall. The streets were nearly empty. The shops boarded up. Just a few veiled women, keeping their heads bowed as they hurried home. Inside 10 Downing Street, the prime minister cowered under his desk. “No more,” he sobbed.
Over in City Hall, Sadiq Khan signed the death warrants of another 50 motorists who had failed to pay the Ulez charge. His original order had been that first offenders should only have both hands cut off, but he had been overruled by the ayatollahs. Sharia law should never be that lenient.
In Threadneedle Street, Andrew Bailey, the governor of the Bank of England, was pacing the vast boardroom. The woman he was expecting, the editor of the Financial Times, was late. On the table were laid out two bandanas and two suicide vests. In under an hour they – and Jeremy Hunt – would both be dead. Well, what would you do? After all that Jezza has done to the economy. The fight back of the deep state starts here.
Still, the caliphate was expanding its reach. Down in the Cotswolds, Boris Johnson was being dragged through the centre of Chipping Norton. In an hour’s time he would be stoned to death. The punishment for adultery. Let him be an example to other politicians. Up in the balcony of the town hall, David Cameron – AKA Lord Big Dave – allowed himself a wry smile. He would be throwing the first stone.
Er … actually, scrub that intro. That was the Lee Anderson and Liz Truss vision of Britain on Monday. It’s now Thursday.
The United Kingdom, February 2024. A cold wind still blew down Whitehall. The streets were also still empty and the shops boarded up. And Rishi Sunak hadn’t moved since Monday. Nobody had managed to talk him out from under his desk.
Out on Oxford Street, a group of murderous terrorists had formed an orderly queue outside Selfridges. They claimed to be waiting for the shop to open so that they could buy the new Call of Duty video game. But Rish! knew better. He alone had attended the Cobra briefing led by Suella Braverman. Before long, some of the terrorists would be waving flags and walking somewhere else. Some might even be smiling and demanding “peace”. Imagine that.
It was the same throughout the rest of this once prosperous land. In the countryside, sheep were lying with donkeys and crops were rotting in the fields. The roads were unpassable, blocked by overturned cars and looted lorries. The sun no longer shone and beggars howled to the skies, their cries unanswered. Bodies lay unburied in the street. And still the mob demanded peace.
James Cleverly was just the latest cabinet member to tiptoe into No 10 via the secret tunnel. It was far too dangerous for him to use the front door. He kept his head down in the corridors in case his movements attracted the attention of a sniper. He needed to coax the prime minister out. He hadn’t been to the toilet for days.
“What do you want?” Rish! sobbed. “Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”
“It’s OK,” said Jimmy Dimly tenderly.
“Is it safe? Is it safe?”
“Is what safe?”
“Is it safe? Is it safe? The country has descended into mob rule. We no longer have a functioning government. By the way, who is the prime minister? And which party has been in power for the last 14 years?”
“You don’t want to know,” said Jimmy D. “But I have a cunning plan. We’re going to let everyone have three protests and then say: ‘You’ve made your point. Enough is enough. Time to go home now and everything will be fine.’”
“You say all the sweetest things, Jimmy,” said Rish!. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”
Weirdly, this wasn’t a line of reasoning that the security minister, Tom Tugendhat, chose to employ in his statement to the Commons on MPs’ safety. In fact, he got through the whole hour without mentioning the words “mob rule”. Almost as if he was a bit ashamed by his leader. Embarrassed by him. You get the feeling that the end of this parliament can’t come too soon for Tories like Tugendhat.
Instead, Tugendhat just stuck to basics. MPs are increasingly under threat and need protection. No one was going to argue with that. Though he was understandably unwilling to think what might have prompted the surge in death threats. That it might have all kicked off with the coarsening of the debate during the Brexit years. Rightwing newspapers branding MPs and judges as traitors and enemies of the people. And the government just standing by in passive acceptance. Nodding it through.
Back in Downing Street, Jimmy D was still trying to lure Sunak out.
“It’s the big annual Tory fundraiser tonight. The Black and White ball,” Dimly explained. “We need to extract as much dosh as possible with the election coming.”
“What have others given so far?” squeaked Rish!.
“Let me see … Suella has offered a lifelong break in Rwanda. Stay in a two-star hotel. The advance bidding on that has been slow. And Honest Bob Jenrick is offering to help with controversial planning applications. Pornographers especially welcome …”
“And what are you giving?’
“A luxury five-night stay on the Bibby Stockholm, with a banquet dinner cooked by 30p Lee.”
“That’s amazing.”
“In which case I will offer an honorary knighthood. Preferably to someone linked to my father-in-law’s business interests.”
“You’re all heart,” said Jimmy Dimly. “All this giving is very tiring.”
