From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s prime minister
I DID moan rather about Baroness Mone during the pandemic, never giving me a minute’s peace and so on. It seemed my wife listened. ‘Are you the bra woman? Piss off.’
I gesture for her to hand me the phone. She responds with a gesture from the English vernacular tradition. ‘We all made money from the pandemic, you silly moo, but when you sell my husband bad PPE you’ll pay the price. He is the prime minister now.’
I’m unaccustomed to Akshata being proud of my achievements. She’s a great believer in keeping me humble. She continues, ‘No, it’s nothing to me either but I have real money. I do not get caught with my fingers in the till for a grubby £29 million like a shopgirl.
‘Take your nasty cheap knickers and bras and surgical gowns and stick them up your asshole, you publicity-hungry tramp. I hope they send you and your fat-neck husband to prison. Okay here is Rishi.’
Unsurprisingly Michelle has hung up. I am rather relieved. She reminds me of the women who’d shout at my father over the pharmacy counter about their HRT.
‘Bloody woman,’ says Akshata. ‘Pushy and stupid, a nasty combination. I bet that yacht of hers is upholstered in leopardskin.’
‘She was a nightmare,’ I agree, relieved. ‘It was day and night during the pandemic. Boris never says no to a woman, especially not a woman who has phone numbers of bra models.’
‘Yeah yeah,’ my wife says. She bores easily. It’s one of the things I respect most about her. ‘So you signed the cheques, like a halfwit. Can she drag you into this and ruin you?’
‘No,’ I reply, confident. ‘I was very careful. I never promised her anything on the calls, I never responded to the emails, I only sent the money when I was told to. My hands are clean.’
‘Pity,’ Akshata said. ‘I had hopes we could end this prime minister farce early. Ah well.’
