Theresa May’s unblinking eyes surveyed the gothic gloom of her study. She is seated in a steel replica of the Game of Thrones throne, generously donated by the Hinduja brothers. She is dressed entirely in black, resembling an Ann Robinson without the Botox. On her lap is a growling, dribbling bulldog. She tightens the studded collar whispering, ‘quiet Hannan, soon you will be fed.’ On her desk resting on an ancient bible is a battered Webley revolver. The room is littered with glass jars filled with a brackish liquid which in the eerie glow of the candlelight reveal the severed heads of Ken Clarke, Anna Soubrey and an assortment of faceless blobs. In pride of place bolted to the wall is a garish portrait of Geoffrey Boycott. The heavy iron clad door creaks open and a tall Rasputin like figure in flowing robes enters. A smoking brass ball of incense is swung on a chain in his left hand and a long rope attached to a mysterious shape in the other.
‘And who have you brought me today Nick’
‘Yow wanted to see the Health Secretary mistress’, he Brummied.
‘Ah, Jeremy’, she purred. ‘No need to get off your knees. Have you read the Times this morning?
’Oh, the Lesbian mum runs off with the sperm donor story? Er, tax relief for hedgehogs perhaps?’
‘No you fool. The “cut size of puddings says Hunt, story.” This is causing me grief. I had Soames weeping on the phone to me this morning. He is a broken man. And Boris is incandescent with rage. He becomes physically unwell unless he gets his muffin. Worse, Keith Vaz becomes quite unpredictable unless he has a regular supply of spotted dicks. Why didn’t you let me know of this nanny state policy?
‘Well, I did try to text you’.
’ how many times have I told you text it means text it you fool. Remember if this is to become a nanny state only I will be the nanny’.
The Rasputin like figure tugs on the rope. ‘Yam to take him away mistress? This ain’t giving the babby a frock and pinny.’
‘Oh get him out of my sight. And bring me Fox, you’ll find him in the cellar with the chief whip. It’s time he learned to play Brexit roulette.’
‘Brexit roulette mistress?’
‘Oh, it’s a bit like the Russian version except all the chambers are loaded.’
‘And mistress? That picture of Boycott has to go.’
A look of horror turning to anger spread across the prime ministerial visage.
‘Never, never, never over my dead…..’
‘But mistress it’s by Rolf Harris.’
Suddenly klaxons and sirens filled the air followed by an eerily calm announcement, ‘warning, warning doctor required at Prime Minister’s study.’
‘Nick,’ groaned May, her eyes swivelling and tongue lolling.‘Not fucking Fox.’
