Lifestyle choices can come at you fast these days. Only on Sunday, Suella Braverman was still home secretary. Free to demonstrate her self-absolution during the two-minute silence for Remembrance Sunday. A day later and she was sacked by a prime minister too weak to have done so when it might have made a difference. After she had had time to cheer on the division that she had done so much to provoke on the pro-Palestine march.
Now the time was Suella’s own. First to concentrate on the two-minute hate. Though it’s doubtful George Orwell’s time slot would be quite long enough for Suella to vent her fury at the world. She’d need at least a quarter of an hour. Even then she’d have to concentrate harder than she ever had before. Then to pack her tent and make herself homeless. There was nothing she enjoyed more than being abused or ignored. Though only for a while. Next there was the leadership bid to prepare. She would prove just how good a hater she was with her resignation letter. And if all else failed there was always I’m a Celebrity. Being homeless with a £1m paycheque was her kind of lifestyle choice.
James Cleverly was gutted. No more flying round the world on private jets. Or, if he really must, then slumming it in first class. He had lived for travel. For people telling him he was marvellous. Hanging out in embassies. Never paying for anything. Now he had been asked to take over as home secretary. That was a thankless fucking job. Just being driven in cars to detention centres. Nothing the government did was going to stop the small boats. This was just Sunak’s endgame. Spinning out the futility till the next election. And Jimmy Dimly had no choice but to go along with it. He didn’t have the self-worth to resign. Still, home sec would look good on the CV.
Just then a vaguely familiar middle-aged man was spotted walking up Downing Street. Was it … ? Could it be … ? It could! It was Big Dave Cameron. But what was he doing there? He’d last been seen there in 2016 when he’d whistled his way back into No 10 after single-handedly wrecking the country. Mmm. Perhaps he was on his way to do some more dodgy lobbying for Greensill. Things hadn’t panned out well for Big Dave in the intervening years. He’d just drifted aimlessly from non-job to non-job. “I used to be prime minister,” he would say sadly to anyone who would listen. We’ve tried to forget.
“Here’s the thing, Big Dave,” said Rishi. “I’ve rather scraped the bottom of the barrel. I’ve hunted around the gene puddle of talent that is the Tory party and concluded that not one of them is fit to be foreign secretary. So I’d like you to give it a go. It’s not that hard a job. Hell, how could it be if Jimmy D’s done it for a year without starting a war? And obvs, you’d get a peerage thrown in. Though, to tell you the truth, I thought you’d have one already by now. So what do you say? You wouldn’t even have to answer departmental questions or appear in the house. So there would be no accountability at all!”
Big Dave stroked both his chins. This was a tricky one. A job that might actually require some work. Not his usual bag at all. “You do know that I have been critical of almost everything you have done as prime minister,” he said. “At almost every opportunity, you have made the wrong call. Come to think of it, you might even be slightly worse than I was.”
“That’s why I want you back,” Rish! enthused. “Because I am the change prime minister. I am the Conservative who will clean up the country after the Conservatives. Nothing shouts ‘change’ more than bringing back the prime minister who started the decline to help manage the decline. So what do you say? Obviously, we’ll try and keep you away from Europe. The EU hasn’t forgiven you for Brexit. So do try and not be so careless this time. Concentrate for more than five minutes if you can. OK? Now what’s your plan for the rest of the world?”
“Easy,” replied Big Dave, the old confidence flooding back. “I’d go to Moscow and tell Russia and Ukraine to have a referendum on peace. Then I’d fly to Israel and get Netanyahu and Hamas to agree to a referendum on a ceasefire. After that, I’d go to Beijing … ”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure why, actually. Just for old time’s sake. I’ve done a lot of defending the Chinese. That’s got to be a plus, hasn’t it? Now what about a job for my old mucker George? Ozzy is at a bit of a loose end now. He’s even doing a dreadful podcast with Ed Balls. He couldn’t be a worse chancellor than Jeremy Hunt. It will be like bringing back the old team. The austerity years are here again. People will be thrilled to be reminded of why no public services work any more. So let’s do it. It’s only for a year after all. Let’s face it, we’re bound to lose the next election.”
As Big Dave bounced out of Downing Street, Rish! returned to his spreadsheet. Still far too many gaps. What he wouldn’t give for at least one vaguely competent minister. Some hope. Obviously Thérèse Coffey would have to go. She had been the anti-environment secretary. Her proudest legacy to the planet would be her resignation. Let the rivers rejoice!
Maybe Steve Barclay could replace her. At least he was quite nice. If equally useless. But then he would need a new health secretary. Who better than the entitled Vicky Atkins to take over? Someone with no experience of anything. It wasn’t as if the doctors were on strike, waiting lists were at a record high and hospitals crumbling. Yup, Vicky would be perfect. What could possibly go wrong? While he was about it, he could also sack the hopeless Greg Hands as party chairman. A man who literally did nothing except tweet the same unfunny Liam Byrne letter five times a day.
Just then, there was a knock on the door. It was Olive Dowden. Junior ministers were resigning in droves. Even the ones who were OK at their jobs. Getting out while they were still young. Had their lives ahead of them. Ready for a last chance powerdrive. Their best hope of re-election to wipe their fingerprints from government. Or just get out completely. The ultimate detox. So that just left the dregs. The desperate who would take any job. Anything. What a shit show. Imagine Grant Shapps as defence secretary. Or Esther McVey as minister for common sense. Has Sunak ever met her? Or watched her show on GB News? She’s senseless. This is the end, beautiful friend … the end.
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.
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. Book tickets here or at theguardian.live
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. Book tickets here or at theguardian.live
