THE call comes from his mobile number. He doesn’t bother to disguise his voice. And still he’s surprised to be called on his lie.
‘Prince, sorry King Charles here,’ he says, sounding entirely like Boris. ‘Just a quick call to say you won’t be needed on Saturday after all, so if you can have your tickets ready I’ll send a courier round.’
‘I know it’s you, Boris,’ I reply. ‘It’s not Boris,’ Boris says. ‘You’re calling from Boris’s phone,’ I say. ‘And?’ he says. ‘And you’re Boris,’ I say. ‘Fuck,’ he says.
‘What are you after tickets for? You and Carrie are already invited,’ I say, perplexed. ‘Well two reasons,’ he says, the pretence dropped but still resenting that I lacked the good grace to play along.
‘First, you shouldn’t be there and nor should bloody Truss. Makes me look less important when I’m two prime ministers back. Puts me only two away from Brown, and he was a total loser who got kicked out after barely three years.’ I say nothing.
‘Second, I’ve promised a few oligarchs I can get them in. Not all Russian – one Qatari and a US cryptocurrency bro. Thought my sheer charisma would swing it, but everyone’s acting like the guest list is sacrosanct. I can’t even get fucking Meghan’s ticket.’
‘This is the first coronation in 70 years,’ I say. ‘You can’t just turn up with a load of mates and talk your way past the door staff. There are snipers on every roof.’
‘Yes, but when I say promised I mean, you know, promised. Trousered the cash. Spent it,’ he admits. ‘So I need four tickets chop-bloody-chop.’
‘What?’ I say, outraged for His Majesty. ‘There’s no way you can march in there with four uninvited strangers.’ ‘Six,’ he says, ‘but I’ve picked up two extra tickets already. Theresa fell for it.’
