Rishi Sunak’s California Dream

IMAGINE for one moment that you are Rishi Sunak.

Isn’t the world much bigger than you remember? And what happened to your trousers?

Seriously, no, Badger means it: imagine for one moment that you are Rishi Sunak.

Stop laughing. There you are - Rishi Sunak - and you want to show how tough you are.

Badger said stop laughing.

So, there you are, Rishi Sunak, being tough.

You are going to get those pesky migrants onto a plane to Rwanda, come hell or high water.

That’ll show people how tough you are.

There are tens of thousands of immigrants whose human rights you want to breach in inventive and callous ways. Getting them on a plane to Rwanda is just the start.

The plans have been laid.

The law is in the process of being changed.

You don’t have any planes, but that’s just a detail.

And Rwanda is such a safe country you’ve had to pass a law declaring it one. Next week, you’ll pass a law saying the sky is pink and there are 300 degrees in a circle.

But let’s get this one off the ground first.

You’ve thought of everything. That nice and murderous President Kagame has promised he won’t torture the people you want to deport to his nation. Even better, he won’t allow anyone else to seize and torture them, either. And you know you can trust someone who diverted an aircraft flying to another country to Kigali so he could seize one of his opponents and imprison them.

President Kagame even has homes ready for the deportees.

You know he does because you sent Suella Braverman to see them last year, and she declared them “tip top.”

But what’s this? Suella is in a newspaper and looks sad and angry.

You’re Rishi Sunak: you’re used to Suella being sad and angry. Everyone is used to Suella being sad and angry. Often, she’s both at the same time.

And then you see what she’s looking sad and angry about.

The Rwandans, who’ve scarfed nine figures in handouts from the UK Government that are definitely not bribes, have flogged around three-quarters of the houses that the deportees were supposed to live in.

Now you are sad and angry. You’re not as sad and angry as Suella Braverman, but who is?

To make it worse, you had that nice and murderous President Kagame over to visit you in Number Ten only last week.

Oddly, he didn’t mention anything about not having anywhere to house the people you want to deport.

But you are Rishi Sunak. Nobody would forget to tell you something that important. You smile to yourself and realise this is all some sort of mistake. The Rwandans wouldn’t pull the rug out from under you after getting their mitts on hundreds of millions of UK taxpayers’ money. Not after you rummaged around the back of the sofa for loose change to buy President Kagame a Costa Coffee Mocha Latte.

James Cleverley pops in to see you.

“You’ll never guess what’s happened, Prime Minister.”

It’s strange he’s phrased that as a statement, right?

You pause, then suggest: “The economic recovery is on track, the polls have turned round, and we’re going to win the Election.”

You wait for the Home Secretary to pick himself up off the floor, where he’s rolling around laughing.

“No, Prime Minister,” he says, wiping his eyes, “far better news than that.”

“Have the small boats all stopped?” you ask, and then you wait for Mr Cleverley to recover again.

“No. It’s the Rwandans.”

You wait. Your face a study in calm determination.

“The Rwandans have sold the homes that we were going to house the people you want to deport.”

You wait. Your face a study in calm annoyance.

“We can’t send hundreds to Rwanda anymore,” James Cleverley continues.

You reflect that you haven’t seen a smirk like that since Priti Patel left the Cabinet.

“We can only send a couple of dozen.”

You think quickly. A couple of dozen is better than none. It’s a good return on an investment of £300m and counting, after all.

“I knew you’d be pleased, Prime Minister,” the Home Secretary smiles, “it’s put the kybosh on that batshit crazy plan Priti and Suella palmed off on you.”

You are not pleased.

You are Rishi Sunak, and you are not pleased.

In fact, you’re miffed.

You put the toys back in your pram and compose yourself.

“That is moderately perturbing,” you say with the sort of equanimity that comes from thinking about your post-election career in California with your wife’s family’s billions.

Drawing yourself up to your full height, you look up at the Home Secretary’s belt buckle with a determined stare.

“Sold?” You venture.

“Yes, Prime Minister. To show its devotion to free-market economics and the forces of capitalism, the Rwandan Government has allowed the sale of the properties that Suella went to see.”

You smile your knowing smile.

“Well,” you say, “that’s proof that our engagement with the Rwandans has been a huge political success. We have exported capitalism to a oneparty state. I think this is a cause for celebration.

“Imagine how happy the free trade wing of the Party will be. I’ll get a standing ovation at next PMQs.”

Mr Cleverley pauses and stops measuring up the curtains in your office.

“Precisely, Prime Minister. I dare say the backbenchers will scarcely be able to control themselves.”

You smile up at Mr Cleverley as he browses a furniture catalogue.

“It’ll really show Kier Starmer who’s in charge,” you venture.

“Oh yes, Prime Minister,” replies Mr Cleverley, “by the way, does that desk come with the job?”

But you’re not listening. You’re lost in thought.

A glittering future awaits. You can almost see the light reflecting off the waters of your Californian swimming pool.

It’s so close now. So close.