From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s technical prime minister
SHE’S not carrying it. It’s just casually holstered at her waist, like everyone’s rocking the everyday accessory of a sword and swordbelt.
‘Is that-‘ I say, fearing the answer. ‘A sword?’ she replies, cheeks pink with pride. ‘Yes. It’s Lord Nelson’s in fact. I borrowed it from the Navy. The admiral’s an older gent. Very accommodating, not like you.’
‘Ah,’ I say, stalling for time. Because I already knew about the sword. Everybody knew about the bloody sword. We’d all seen her Instagram this morning. Akshata was particularly harsh about it.
Judging discretion the better part of valour, I don’t repeat my wife’s comments about ‘that bloody Valkyrie getting all the plaudits’ or indeed the Coronation being ‘shit’ with ‘a lower per-head spend than our wedding’. Penny is, after all, armed.
‘I think only Black Rod’s allowed a sword in here,’ I say, lamely. ‘Rules rules rules,’ she says. ‘Not as important as winning the hearts of the people, are they? Not as important as losing a thousand councillors, are they?’
‘You see,’ she adds, ‘Fortune has favoured me. I’ve found my thing. A little bit magician’s assistant, a little bit Boudica, a little bit dominatrix. The answer was a sword all along.
‘And now I’ve got this, do we really need you? Losing culture wars? Losing to the Blob on Brexit? Losing every leadership election you’ve entered? Mm?’
‘I’m prime minister,’ I say, breathing heavily. ‘And I’m fucking Britannia,’ she says, a glint in her eye. I note I am uncomfortably aroused.
