From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s caretaker prime minister
IT’S taken months of tough negotiation to fix the broken Northern Ireland protocol. Boris doesn’t care. ‘Shove your tawdry compromise up there sideways,’ he suggests.
‘Compromise,’ he continues, while I frantically signal to an office full of people avoiding eye contact, ‘is for other people. Like rules. Frankly the Protocol bill was only to keep that cretin Liz busy.’
‘But,’ I explain while he breathes heavily down the phone, ‘we risk a trade war with the EU if we-’ ‘Exactly,’ he interrupts, reminding me of all the times I explained how Covid works.
‘Who doesn’t love a war?’ he continues. ‘Look at Zelensky. Two years ago he was nothing but the guy on the end of a threatening phone call from Trump. Today’s he’s scoring the finest pussy on the continent and Berlusconi’s up in arms about it.
‘A trade war is win-win. Brings down inflation because there’s bollock all to buy, gives everyone that patriotic glow, boosts British industry. Liberals say it’ll kill the poor, but I’ve found them to be remarkably resilient.’
‘Why are you calling?’ I ask, reframing the discussion to assert dominance. ‘Aren’t you busy with your duties to constituents in Uxbridge and South Ruislip?’
‘Fuck those cunts,’ he replies. ‘I never took to that seat. I preferred Henley, it’s much more me. I’ve added the sitting MP on my Honours list and he’s pissing off in return for a peerage. Anyway, you know I’m coming back?’
‘Back where?’ In earshot, a Spad giggles. ‘Back to Number Ten,’ Boris says. ‘Unfinished business. Sort Northern Ireland out if you have to, but you’ll get no credit. And you’re not chancellor either. I’ve promised it to Truss so her tax headbangers back me.’
I hang up. Truly a glimpse into the kind of derangement that comes with untrammelled access to power. I hope I never go that way. ‘Boris says he must have got cut off but he’ll be back after the May elections,’ the Spad says.
