“Sergei? It’s me, Oleg. Switch on screen. I have film for you. Yes, I know is not scheduled broadcast, but bad Boris is in room right now. Live! And, trust me, is the good stuff. The boss will like very much!”
Sergei watches open-mouthed as the motion capture cameras keep up with Johnson as he goes on the rampage, kicking the serried ranks of chairs aside and tearing down the flags. A light flicks on in the corner of Sergei’s screen. The boss has joined the transmission. Sergei mutes himself in case he makes any sound that might invoke his master’s wrath, though he seems in a good humour, the laughter building as the scene unfolds…
The expensive surveillance system, paid for (unwittingly) by the British public, is doing a great job of capturing the drama and, thanks to the exceptional audio, every last splutter and spiffle can be heard with bell-like clarity.
“I won’t do it, I tell you. I won’t do it anymore. How DARE that Waugh fellow? How dare he question me? Doesn’t he know who I am? I am Churchill! I am Alexander the Great reincarnated. I am World King!”
Johnson kicks over the podium and rounds on Allegra, who shields her face from the spittle spray.
“I suppose you think you’ll take over. Well let me tell you, missy, that isn’t happening. You can go and talk to all those ruddy Greenies and tree-huggers.”
“But…” Allegra interjects,
“But nothing, You’ve got your orders, now get out of here before I fire you like that jumped up little scrote, Mercer. Coming in here to resign! Who does he think he is? He can f*** off down to Pastyland or wherever”
“I think you mean Devo…”
“And you can f*** off down to Pastyland, too. With the knit-your-own lentil brigade!”
“How many times? Highness! Highness! Or Excellency!”
“Think of the optics, Highness. We spent £2.6 million of the taxpayers’ money on this suite and if you don’t use it…or destroy it…”
Johnson pauses his kick-fest to laugh at her.
“Listen, you dopey bint, if you think we spent £2.6 million you need your empty little noggin examined…Anyway. It’s decided. The India jolly is off so I’m bound for Chequers for a bit of poolside norks and naughtiness and a load of tennis coaching. And that’s that. Once I’ve got this footie thing sorted…can’t have the proles going without their panem et circenses.”
A SpAd enters the room, looks horrified and then quickly composes himself.
Johnson rounds on him. “What is it, man? Cat got your tongue? Ahh…no…dog got that cat, murderous blighter…Anyway, spit it out? When do I pretend to bash a few oligarch heads over this footie thing for the benefit of Kuenssberg and Marr? Can’t hang about. Got some tottie to service before teatime.”
The aide has blanched and is slowly turning green:
“Well, Prime Minister. “It’s all over. They’ve caved. The Super League won’t be happening.”
Johnson punches the air with his fist! “Ha! Frightened of me! See? See my power? Didn’t even need one of those stupid COBRA meetings – dull as ditchwater…Only snake for me is the chap in me trousers!”
“I think it was more the fans, actually…and some clubs and players…Marcus Rashf…”
Allegra catches the SpAd’s eye and draws her finger across her throat…
Johnson sets his jaw, grinds his teeth, a maddened look in his eye. He ruffles his hair and moves towards the unfortunate creature.
“Never, ever, EVER…” the SpAd turns tail and flees.
Allegra, twisted smile playing on her lips: “Well, now that is out of the way, you can concentrate on Acuri, Northern Ireland, PPE, Covid death toll that beat Brazil’s, the £36 billion spaffed on Test and Trace, the destruction of the economy by Brexit, the soured relationship with Biden and the EU and the little matter of the implementation of the Russia Report.”
Johnson turns white and slumps onto a plastic chair, (£15 bulk buy from Staples). He fishes out a burner phone.
“Boobalicous? Is that you? There’s a bad boy here needs a damn good IT lesson to cheer the poor old chap up.”
Allegra turns towards the hidden camera and winks. Vladimir guffaws with laughter from the fastness of his palace on Cape Idokopas.