He had the sense that the place was haunted. The portraits of all the previous occupants gazed out on him as he went up and down the stairs to the cramped but expensively decorated apartment that one of the recent occupants had lavished so much money on. He could almost hear their disapproving whispers urging him to get tough with the unions and bring the country back to its senses.
Rishi sighed as he trudged up to bed. At least tomorrow he could shut himself off from everybody and lounge around in his underwear drinking Crème de Menthe by the pint. It may not be much but it was at least a plan. It’s not like there was a Queen’s Speech to look forward to this year. Dejectedly Rishi slumped into bed. It had been a tough year and he was glad it was almost over. A good night’s sleep was just what he needed.
A quick slug of whisky provided the tranquilliser that would send him to sleep: A deep slumber when the pressures of the job would fall away. Then suddenly he heard it. Tap-tap-tap on the window pane. One of the most secure houses in London and someone was trying to break in. Incensed, Rishi stormed over and flung open the window. And there, sitting on the windowsill, was Tony Blair.
“What the hell are you doing there?” asked Rishi.
“I am the ghost of Christmas past,” replied Blair.
“But you’re not even dead, at least not physically,” said Rishi. “How can you be a ghost?”
“You don’t have to be dead to be a ghost,” Blair answered. “Just look at Keith Richards. Anyway, I’ve come to show you what life was like in Merrie England in the days of BC.”
Seeing Rishi’s puzzled look, Blair helpfully added, “Before the Conservatives. Here, grab hold of my arm. And do call me Tony”.
Before he could even reply, Blair reached out and for a moment all went blank. But then Rishi recovered his composure and realised that the two of them were standing in a hospital waiting room. “Where are we?” he asked.
“This is the waiting room at St Thomas’ Hospital,” replied Blair.
“But it’s empty,” said Rishi. “Is everyone on strike?”
Blair visibly bristled. “No. It’s 2010 and the place is empty because a Labour government has ensured there are sufficient staff to tend to patients quickly with the result that waiting times are minimal.”
This time it was Rishi’s turn to bristle: “Your spending plans crashed the economy,” he snapped.
“Remind me again,” retorted Blair, “how high is the public debt to GDP ratio now compared to 2010? How weak is the pound? And what about…”
Before Blair could finish the sentence, Rishi cut him off. “What about Iraq?” he yelled.
“Brexit,” responded Blair.
Before he had a chance to think of a clever retort, Rishi found himself sitting up in bed. Had he merely dreamed his weird encounter? Whatever was in that whisky, it wasn’t good. Rishi lay awake in his bed, too pumped to sleep, when his thoughts were interrupted by a tap-tap-tap on the window. “If that’s Blair, I will push him off the windowsill,” said Rishi to himself. Flinging back the curtain, expecting to see Blair’s grinning visage, Rishi was astonished to be greeted by the sight of Liz Truss.
“Don’t tell me you’re the ghost of Christmas present,” said Rishi shakily.
“I am indeed,” replied Truss. “I’m here to show you the power of free market economics and the Britain that I created during my term in office.”
Rishi was bemused: “But you were only in the job for 44 days. How much could you actually do in that time?”
“Clearly you are not a believer in Trussonomics. Come with me to a Citizens Advice Bureau to see how the people gratefully acknowledge the power of markets to set them free,” she replied.
“Maybe not a great move, Liz,” said Rishi. “Got any other venues in mind?”
“How about any Conservative Party branch in the country?” said Truss, hopefully.
“Maybe not a great choice either given what you did to the brand,” he muttered sarcastically.
“A group of hedge fund managers, then?” She was beginning to sound desperate.
“Why would I want to mix with those peasants?” said Rishi, loftily.
“Oh, come on Rishi. You’re not exactly entering into the spirit of this exercise, if you’ll pardon the pun,” wailed Truss.
“Well, the truth is, Liz, that my life is so much more miserable thanks to your misguided tax-cutting plan.” Rishi was shouting now.
“But that was all Kwasi’s idea.” She seemed on the verge of tears.
“I don’t care. Go away and leave me alone.” He was definitely shouting.
“There are many worse ghosts than me you know,” pouted Truss.
“I really don’t see how. Anyway, I don’t believe in ghosts and I certainly don’t believe in you. I’m going back to bed.” With that Rishi slammed the window shut and realising that he was in some sort of bizarre Dickensian plot sat down to await the ghost of Christmas future, musing that it was better than waiting for the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. At this point in the story, you are probably expecting Keir Starmer to tap on the window and show Rishi how bleak and miserable the future will be unless he changes course. But Starmer never showed up, which frankly is a blessing. After all, we will soon enough see what it will bring.
Merry Christmas to you and yours.
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