From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s most name-calling prime minister
‘HE calls you a paedo enabler and Sir Softy is what you hit back with? Do you not even pay attention when I am insulting you?’ my wife asks, not unreasonably.
‘It works because,’ I explain, still pretty buzzed about the bullseye I scored, ‘it makes a mockery of his knighthood and undercuts all his tough talk. Because he’s not actually tough. He’s a softy.’
‘He’s taller than you. And wider,’ Akshata observes. ‘And looks as if he could throw a punch. My money’s on him.’
Nettled, I reply ‘Anyway, it’s got him on the run. Softy because he’s soft on crime, you see? That’s the line we’re going to win the election with. And there’s a picture of him with an ice-cream.’
I feel I’ve won Akshata over, by her silence, and jauntily crack a kombucha when I notice she is staring at the floor, breathing carefully and shaking her head. Historically that’s been an ominous combination.
‘I have put up with this prime minister bullshit,’ she says, in an even tone that chills me. ‘They come after my non-dom status and I smile. They come after my investment and I say very sorry, pretty please can I pay more tax.’
‘And this is it? This is the best you can manage? Compulsory maths and an infant school nickname for this lipless wolfhound-hair Sam-from-the-Muppet-Show’s-bastard-child puffin redface?
‘They take my childcare millions – only about six, but the little amounts add up – and you do nothing. They call you a paedo provider and you think it makes them look bad? You are shit. You are shit at this specifically. Give this up. Let’s leave for Mumbai tonight.’
‘I can’t,’ I say, ‘I’m prime minister,’ and she cannot even look at me as she stalks out of the room.
