From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s appropriately festive prime minister
AS a Hindu, I don’t know a lot about Christmas. And my idea to do a show where I learn the true meaning of it was called ‘the biggest vote-loser since Suez.’
‘They’re doing very well on Netflix,’ I say. ‘I wear a reindeer jumper, look confused, the spirit of Christmas helps me out, happy ending.’
‘You parroting sentiments you don’t understand wearing a child’s sweater with the slogan ‘Eat Sleep Christmas Repeat’ on it would be electoral armageddon,’ Gove says. ‘It would be a happy ending like a masseuse pulling your cock off.’
‘The public already suspects you’re not human,’ he continues. ‘Helicoptering into Lapland to touch base with Santa when you’re dwarfed by his fucking elves would see we didn’t make the spring by-elections.’
‘So what is Christmas about?’ I ask, with an endearing mock-naiveté that would light up a streaming screen. ‘Forgiveness,’ he snaps, leaving. ‘Which you desperately need.’
And, as the door slams behind him, I realise he’s right. I do need forgiveness. The British people need forgiveness. I can’t go into 2024 holding everything they’ve done wrong against them.
The list of their crimes is long. Not believing me on the boats. Not understanding economic necessity. Using my five priorities against me when they were very much an internal target that we never intended to publicise.
Most of all, for not listening. For not paying attention to my tough talk. For not even remembering I’d promised long-term solutions for a brighter future. For electing Labour at every by-election regardless.
I forgive you, Britain. Because it’s Christmas. No, wait, I don’t have to do any of that, I’m a Hindu.
