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Why I pay far, far less tax than you, by Rishi Sunak

CONFUSED as to why multi-millionaire Rishi Sunak pays proportionately less tax than you? Here the prime minister explains why this actually makes total sense.

I’m the prime minister

Sure, it sounds impressive, but the job doesn’t pay that much. That’s why they sweeten the deal by throwing in all those workplace bonuses like a pokey old flat to live in and jollies to Ukraine. I’d be far better off being a hedge fund manager or married to a billionaire. And I should know because I’ve done both those things and made a packet in the process.

I have a US investment fund

This nice little earner is how I make most of my money. And because capital gains are lightly taxed, most of the dosh goes straight into my pocket. Frankly I’m surprised more people don’t give it a whirl! Overseas investments definitely pay better than a real job where you actually contribute to society, although don’t quote me on that because I’m not speaking from experience. 

I know how to play the game

I’ve been in the money racket for decades. I cut my teeth at Goldman Sachs. So I’m bound to have picked up a few sneaky money-saving tips in the process. You’d use them yourselves if you were in a position to, so don’t be hypocrites by getting all angry at me. Hate the game, not the player. And that’s what I am – a player.

Tax is inherently f**ked up

The pittance I’ve forked out over the years is the tip of the iceberg. HMRC will come down hard on a poor child minder who filed their tax return a day late, yet the likes of Google and Apple are free to get away with paying f**k all. Why not focus on these mega-rich corporations instead of my small-fry tax, which doesn’t even make it into the millions?

I’m really, really rich

I pay less tax because I already have enough money in the bank to last several lifetimes. That makes no sense but it’s how the world works. Yes, I could easily adjust the rules to make taxes fairer for people barely making ends meet, but I won’t. I like to feel like a winner, and that’s not easy for me, apart from my impressive collection of over 20 replica lightsabers.

Kanye West, and other celebrities who'd be a nightmare as regulars at your local

KIM Kardashian was recently spotted having a pint in a London pub. Which celebrities would ruin your local if they were always propping up the bar?

Kanye West

Popping in for a swift drink after work, you’re collared by Kanye who’s standing at the bar, four pints down. You politely humour his conspiracy theory ramblings for half an hour, but when he starts telling you Hitler was a cool guy, actually, you decide it’s time to leave. He should be barred really, but Gary the landlord is also a massive racist and they’ve struck up an unlikely but firm friendship.

Gwyneth Paltrow

You’re enjoying a quiet Saturday afternoon pint when Gwyneth trails in with four friends who have nine entitled little shits of children between them. They take over half the pub with their large, expensive handbags and loud voices, and then monopolise the bar staff for 20 minutes going through each item on the menu and asking if it’s vegan and gluten-free, even though every meal is clearly a variation of meat and chips in a basket.

James Corden

A pleasant night having a quiet chat with friends is ruined the second Corden bangs through the door, slaps everyone hard on the back and demands ‘A pint of your finest Stella, mister landlord, sir’. After downing it in one go, he orders another and then starts booming out an unfunny anecdote that’s so loud and annoying nobody else can hold a conversation.

Christian Bale

The whole pub goes silent when Bale walks in. He stares intensely at the barman, whose hand shakes as he pours Bale a pint. You’re sitting alone so he decides to join you, and you spend the whole time wondering if he’s going to suddenly freak out for some tiny, perceived slight and throw you out of a window. He actually wants to talk about his role in Terminator Salvation so when he goes for a piss you leg it to another pub down the road.

Nadine Dorries

You regret nipping out to the smoking area when you spot Nadine there, halfway through a bottle of cheap rosé and gobbing off obnoxiously to anyone in earshot. Later you see her slumped in a corner, weeping about some guy called Boris, before she’s sick in the loos and someone begrudgingly calls her a taxi.

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