From the diary of Rishi Sunak, the UK’s prime minister for 2023
THEY weren’t five pledges. They were five promises, which is different. ‘Oh my God,’ my wife says, ‘even Liam Gallagher is not as nostalgic for 1997.’
‘I just thought,’ I explain while wearing a crisp white shirt with the top two buttons undone, like a sincere, relaxed guy would, ‘that five would be a memorable number. You know. For a mass audience.’
‘Please,’ Akshata says, ‘even the thick British with their substandard maths education can count to six. It is just so obvious that you are doing Blair in brownface. It’s offensive. It is actually racist. What were these promises anyway?’
‘Pledges,’ I reply, deftly sidestepping right into her trap. ‘Well, there’s halving inflation, cutting waiting lists, stopping small boats… growing the economy… no rise in income tax…’
‘Okay. So one that will happen anyway, two that will not, one that has a bad name after the Truss cretin and the last one is not yours, it is New Labour’s. Seriously what? This is more bogus than Be Here Now.’
Akshata’s my harshest critic. It’s what’s so amazing about our marriage, I said once and she non-verbally agreed. ‘This is an empty pledge basket,’ she continues, ‘and you’re the dickhead offering it round. Who came up with this shit?’
‘I worked late into the night,’ I counter, proudly. ‘Don’t you remember? The lights were on?’ ‘Ah. I was in New York,’ she admits. ‘I told you but you didn’t hear? Met Blair actually. With Wendi Deng at the United Nations party.’
‘What?’ I answer, wide-eyed. ‘Did he say anything about me?’ ‘Got you,’ my wife sneers. ‘So pathetic. He wasn’t there, he was on DiCaprio’s yacht. You sad little Blair fanboy.’
