'I am the next leader of the Conservative party,' says Suella. I hate to agree, but I’ve set a low bar

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s most enabling prime minister

MESSIANIC delusions I’m fine with – this time last week, I was hanging with Elon – but surely you need more of a record of achievement than Suella’s got. 

She was a bloody awful attorney general, a home secretary who can’t stop the boats she’s obsessed with who’s already survived one firing, and quite frankly she’s a cretin. But, in an aspirational example to all, she doesn’t let that stop her.

‘By 2025 I will be leading the Conservatives,’ she says, ‘and leading them into glory. Embracing our traditional values. Sealing the borders. Abolishing corporation tax and employment rights. Embraced by the British people.’

‘That, ah, hasn’t exactly happened so far,’ I venture. Suella does have a fanbase, and credit to them for overcoming their racism in her specific case, but she can’t even rally every GB News viewer.

‘Because you’re holding me back,’ she spits. ‘You wouldn’t let me set fire to the Channel. You won’t authorise nuclear force against Hamas. Sometimes I worry it’s not just rhetoric and you actually think humans have rights.

‘Once I’m out I’m a martyr, like the famous Metric Martyrs who were hung, drawn and quartered by the EU, and I’ll be unstoppable. Tory leader by a landslide. A few years in opposition and I’ll be swept into office with a mandate for war.’

‘Who with?’ I say, surprised by the new bit. I’ve heard all the rest before.

‘That’s not important,’ Suella says, ever the big-picture politician. ‘So,’ she continues, towering over me, ‘are you firing me or fucking what?’

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Putting the Great into Britain since 1979: The gammon food critic goes to Wetherspoons

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who won’t watch Match of the Day now women are on it

WAS there a Britain before there was a Wetherspoons? Technically yes, because it was only founded in 1979 and fucked if I remember it before ’92. Spiritually? No. 

It’s up there with the Royal family, chippy teas and shite summers for me. If Tim Martin were leading the Tories they’d never lose an election again.

The limp-wristed liberals love to slag it off, sitting in their pop-up bars where imported craft ale costs a fucking fortune, but that’s because they’re out of touch with the ordinary working man who needs a Full English and a couple of vodka oranges at 9am.

I’ve heard all the whines. ‘The telly’s always on!’ Well, where isn’t it? Not at my place. ‘The loos are miles away!’ Stops the junkies, pet. Anyway, it’s nice to have the walk, test how pissed you are, and you can pop your pint on the cistern when urinating.

So, like the Crusaders to the Holy Land, like Livingstone to darkest Africa, like an RAF Lancaster loaded with bombs to the Ruhr valley; like all those British heroes I’m off to Spoons.

As standard, it’s full of my kind of people. Proper English blokes, white, middle-aged and mostly divorced. Granted, they’re a bit rough, but even in paradise there’s the occasional shower of rain.

I get my first pint in – at less than three quid a time, the first of many – and prise the menu open to peruse what I’ll dine like a king on tonight.

All the greats are there, like a Who’s Who of English culinary superiority. Fish and chips. Scampi and chips. Wiltshire cured ham, egg and chips. Burgers, with or without chips. Bangers and mash. And the cornerstone of British cuisine, chicken tikka masala.

There’s a ‘vegan chilli’ which I’d personally rather flick a rubber band on my testicles than endure, but that illustrates how inclusive and non-judgmental it is here. If some twat wants to chow down on shit best suited to a pig’s trough, that’s their prerogative.

I’m torn between the BBQ chicken melt and my usual beefburger, so pop to the bar and get a couple more pints in while I decide. Might as well stock up, as it’s the usual delay getting served and they’ve got funny about cash, but good things come to those who wait.

If more restuarants understood that food tastes better drunk, they might have a chance of equalling Spoons. By the time my burger arrives it’s like a blessing from the Lord: hot, cheesy, almost perfectly tasteless.

It’s devoured in minutes, along with the complementary pint, and to soothe my burned tongue there’s ice cream with toffee and Belgian chocolate sauce. Show me a pud more British.

‘Fucking Henry the Eighth would have loved that,’ I say out loud after burping. Seven pints in and fully satisfied, though the off-duty dinner ladies on the next table are looking worrying attractive so I must be wrecked.

Meal complete, full of ale, I get up to stagger home. There is a heaven on this earth, in the converted banks, cinemas and post office on every High Street. I hope I go there when I die.