'We could dig pits,' says Suella, 'and throw them all down them?' Off-camera, my wife makes the idiot face

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s toughest-on-immigration prime minister

‘TROUBLE is,’ says Suella on Zoom, ‘apparently rural communities by RAF bases don’t want 6,000 asylum seekers.’ My wife rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out. 

She does not approve of Suella. ‘A law degree from Cambridge and the best she can manage is home secretary? What happened to ambition? I would be head of media law for Disney by now.’

I avert my eyes from her offensive caveman mime. ‘So we’ve settled on asylum ships,’ Suella continues. ‘We can save them from the breaker’s yard and moor them all along the south coast. They’ll be truly horrible and a marvellous deterrent.’

‘Along the south coast,’ I say. ‘I’ve checked availability,’ she continues. ‘Folkestone, Poole, King’s Lynn, Hythe, all free.’ ‘Those are all our constituencies,’ I explain.

‘Oh. Well there’s Grimsby, Hartlepool, Southport?’ ‘Those are Red Wall seats,’ I say, supressing a sigh.

‘Oh. Well, we could go back to my plan of digging pits,’ she carries on, oblivious, while Akshata writes ‘FUCKING MORON’ on her iPad Pro and holds it within my sightline. ‘Put them in there and don’t tell anyone where they are. Then nobody can complai-’

The connection is cut off. ‘Did I unplug the router?’ Akshata says. ‘Oh dear. Now we are deprived of dribblings from the badger’s arsehole. Seriously, fire the bitch.

‘There is tough and then there is a brick with a face painted on. You can’t work with very, very stupid, even you. And nobody trusts her on immigration because she’s brown.’

‘What about me?’ ‘They don’t trust you either,’ she answers. ‘But they assume you’re just a puppet.’

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The IKEA cafe with pickled herring: The gammon food critic goes Scandi

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who thinks Boris Johnson only did what everyone was up to

THEY say the Scandinavian people are the happiest in the world, though God knows how when it’s dark and freezing and beer’s ten quid a pint. 

Maybe it’s because all the women are as blonde and gorgeous as Ulrika Johnson in her TV:AM days, though they seem to have gone downhill since and now they’re all autistic lesbians in jumpers solving murders. Or maybe it’s the food.

What little I know about Nordic grub comes from my days being dragged around Warrington IKEA. The wife used to make us drive up there to buy endless crap that’s still in flat-packs in the garage. Say what you like about being divorced but it spares you the bullshit.

But there’s a new place opened, the prices are British, the waitress are sexually liberated, and I’m assured it’s not socialist. Why not?

It starts well. I’ve barely got my coat off when I’m brought a complimentary shot of aquavit. Sounds like a teenager’s energy drink but it’s actually the same old white spirit every European country has its own name for. Still, I down it then order a beer.

They don’t have Skol, which is plain ignorant, but there’s Falcon and Gotlandsdricka. Bollocks to pronouncing the latter, I’m on the Falcon. I presume it’s like a stronger Kestrel.

They’re keen to impress, just like when they tried to be everyone’s friend during the war, and soon I’m tucking into a smorgasbord. It’s a sandwich but they’ve skimped on the top slice of bread.

The kottbulla, or meatballs, are familiar territory from the IKEA days. Not bad, but a pale imitation of the canned Campbells originals. Come with a jam made from lingonberries, which sounds like a sex act. I suppose they have to pass the long winters somehow.

There’s loads of different bread, including a toast called knackelbrod which makes me chuckle. Even if the food’s boring there’s no denying they’ve got some brilliantly funny names for it.

I pass up smoked reindeer rump because I don’t fancy chowing down on Rudolph’s arsecheeks. But the fish – fuck me, are they having a laugh? Pickled, fermented herrings? I wouldn’t feed that shit to a fucking seal. At least the gravlax is just about palatable, even if it is a poor rip-off of our own smoked salmon.

They’ve got the Northern Lights up on the walls. Not much use if it’s cloudy, I point out, going on to add it’s got nothing on our own Blackpool Illuminations. The waiter stares back blankly. Fresh off the Viking longboat, no doubt.

Attempts to waive the bill because I’m a food critic fall flat, much like the rest of the meal. I like bland, but half of this was like chewing snow.

A worthwhile experience? Yes, in the sense it only reinforced my belief that British food isn’t just best because we’re white people. Would I go again? Would I arseholes.