From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s most tax-cutting prime minister
I SPREAD the headlines out in front of me like a teenage boy with his pornographic magazines. Praise, praise, praise. ‘Net migration’s up,’ says Cleverly from behind me.
I wheel around guiltily, caught in an act of self-aggrandisement. Technically the headlines are praising Jeremy, but not a person in the country is unaware that he’s an anally-operated glove puppet. I know, I’ve run focus groups.
‘How did you get in?’ I ask, perhaps a little squeakier than intended. ‘I mean, how did they get in? The migrants?’
‘Well, we let them, largely,’ he says, sitting down. ‘Gave them visas etcetera. Because we need them to boost the economy. My mother’s from Sierra Leone, yours are Punjabis from Africa, this shouldn’t be a surprise.’
He’s been like this ever since I made him home secretary. Blunt, honest, unbothered by niceties like pretending Rwanda matters. Almost as if he’s in a job he hates but doesn’t care because he’s leaving soon.
‘Suella’s spouting her shit on ex-Twitter,’ he continues, ‘with a magnificent ignorance of the fact she was in charge throughout. Headlines are going to be nasty tomorrow. You’ll be going from Phillip Schofield winning awards to Phillip Schofield shagged a runner.’
‘It’s your job to stop it,’ I say, commandingly, keeping my voice deep. ‘Immigration? I’ll stop issuing visas then, shall I?’ he says. ‘And watch University College London become insolvent overnight?’
‘And what’s this about Stockton-on-Tees?’ I jab back. ‘They’re lying,’ he says, turning to leave. ‘I didn’t say it was a shithole. I said it was a fucking shithole.’
