‘I’m the man to keep Johnny Foreigner in his place!’ Illustration: Ella Baron/The Guardian
So why, you might ask, did I not still run to be prime minister after the Gover had treached on me? After all, I would still have been the frontrunner. The simple answer is that I have never asked myself that question. Although I am certain I didn’t bottle it. That wouldn’t be like me at all.
It was no more than I deserved when Theresa May invited me to be foreign secretary. “Rest assured,” I told her. “Global Britain will be safe with me. I’m the man to keep Johnny Foreigner in his place. Just wait till you see the watermelon smiles on those flag-waving piccaninnies. Not to mention the women dressed up as letterboxes. As for Russia and China, I will be taking no prisoners.”
Talking of prisoners, let me just put the record straight on Nanzanin Zagjhari-Raticliffe. No one had done more than me to get her sentence increased. Who wouldn’t want to spend a few more years in an Iranian jail? The queen later told me I was the best foreign secretary of her illustrious reign. Sadly, I had to cut my tenure short. Having praised Theresa’s Chequers deal to the heights, I found myself having to resign two days later when I realised that David Davis had walked first.
We now find ourselves in December 2019. All was going smoothly, plans were well advanced to build a bridge to the US and the whole country was celebrating my great election victory.
Then, in January, came the coronavirus. Let me get one thing straight. My problem was not that I knew too little about zoonotic diseases, but that I knew too much. So I knew Covid was not going to be a major problem. Who cared if 2% of the population carked it? And yes, I had witnessed the scenes from Italy, but those Mediterranean types are always overexcitable. I couldn’t see the point of attending five Cobra meetings when I had to help Carrie with her arrangements for the baby shower at Chequers.
To cut a long story short, I was magnificent during Covid. Even down to being the first super-spreader, when I shook hands with a whole lot of infected people. No one could have done more than me, carrying on giving the country the leadership it needed even when I was in hospital. I was determined the Moloch would be contained.
Never before in this country’s history has so much been owed by so many to me, as Cicero once said. Time and again, I came to this country’s rescue. By awarding PPE contracts to Michelle Mone. By personally developing a vaccine. If we had remained in the EU, no one in the UK would have got a vaccination and the whole country would have died.
There were no lengths to which I would not go to keep my people safe. I even asked Bear Grylls, Russell Brand and Ant Middleton to launch an attack on the Netherlands to steal a large supply of the vaccine that they didn’t have because they were in the EU. Slip unnoticed into Rotterdam harbour and then explode a nuclear device. The queen positively purred when I explained the plan to her. What could possibly go wrong with attacking a Nato ally, she said. Quite right, I said. The Dutch are practically Germans, so are not to be trusted.
I seem to have forgotten some other bits. Like how I keep being let down by people I have appointed while never once doubting my judgment. Take Dominic Cummings. When he explained how he had immediately gathered together his family after testing positive for Covid so that they could drive 250 miles to Durham, then took his family out for another drive to test his eyesight, it all made complete sense.
Amid all this, there were a few personal high points. Like my wedding to Carrie. The happiest day of my life. Largely because someone else was paying. Every prime minister needs a sucker like the Bamfords who will fork out cash on demand. I liked to call them my personal ATM.
Now to the parties. The parties that absolutely did not happen.
“You mean the Abba party,” growled Dilyn. “The one on the night you fired Dom. I didn’t get a wink.”
“Shut up,” I said. “Or you’ll be back to the dog rescue.”
As I was saying, none of the parties ever took place. All the rules were obeyed at all times, because that’s the kind of guy I am. My only regret is apologising in the first place. I should have just kept on lying about them and trying to brazen it out. But that’s me all over. If I have a fault, it’s that I’m too honest.
Anyway, you know how it is. One thing led to another: the parties, the Owen Paterson and Chris Pincher scandals. Soon, 60 ministers were resigning in protest. Caesar had fewer wounds than me. “Don’t worry,” said Charlotte Owen, an office junior in No 10. “I’m sure you will come through this crisis.” Give that woman a peerage. I did try writing to all the Tory MPs – “Dear Grunts” – whom I had never bothered to speak to in the previous three years, but they too were ungrateful for all I had done.
So that was it. I was out of office. Them’s the breaks. Still, at least I could now cash in on the speaker circuit and write a deeply reflective memoir.
“I’m still waiting,” said the publisher.
On which note, I leave you with the queen’s parting words to me. “My first prime minister was Winston Churchill. My last were you and Liz Truss. Just imagine. I think I might as well die now.”
