Campaign promises in my run for prime minister

Now that Boris Johnson has resigned, Britain will need a new prime minister.

I’m taking this opportunity to throw my hat in the ring or, as the Brits say, chivvy me cracker in the old scrumpy.

That might not actually be what they say. In fact, it almost definitely isn’t. One feature of my time as PM will be a six-week grace period in which I am indemnified against all criticism for not speaking correctly.

I know some of you are saying: “You can’t be prime minister if you’re not British.”

My response: “Where is it written that I have to be British to be prime minister?”

I’m not saying that rhetorically. It would actually be helpful to know where that and other things are written down.

For example, is there an antique desk with one of those pull-out writing surfaces — the British call it an argy-bargy — and, when you pull it out, taped to its surface are some key phone numbers, plus reminders such as: “Must be British.” And “Ix-nay on lockdown parties.” And “QEII = ‘not a hugger.’ ”

Why would I be good at it? I think we all agree that the key job for a British prime minister involves dancing alone in the residence to the strains of “Jump (For My Love)” by the Pointer Sisters.

I mean, it’s not for me to say, but I think I’d be good at that. Maybe I’m already good at that.

There are also not many jobs I could take where my hair would be an upgrade over my predecessor’s. In fact, this might be the only new job in the world I could take where people would view my hair in that light.

Obviously, the “Love, Actually” PM has great hair. I think my hair is midway between Hugh’s and BoJo’s. I’m a follicle centrist.

What kind of platform would I run on? I would start with reversing Brexit. If I’m being honest, I had to check Wikipedia about whether Brexit was 100 percent complete or whether “we” were still in some kind of transition period.

Nope. Brexit is a done deal, and it’s not working out very well. I have only had time, since deciding to run, to read one article in the Atlantic, but it says Britons outside the wealthy southeast have gotten poorer under Brexit, and the promised 350 million pounds in weekly savings never materialized. (Note to self: figure out where the British pound sign is on the keyboard before issuing further statements.)

Also — and this is something else I found out from the Atlantic — Britain has found it difficult to scrap all the EU laws that were supposedly so burdensome because Northern Ireland is still following them.

The alternative would have been to resurrect the border between the North and the Republic, and even I — despite being an under-informed naif — knew that would be an unholy mess.

The result was that Britain under BoJo was not able to make many changes that were the whole point of Brexit.

Which brings me to the twin towers of my campaign. Brentrance and Brownsize.

Reunited and it feels so good. We’re getting back together with the EU, and, at pretty much the same time, cutting loose Northern Ireland and Scotland.

I mean, what kind of Irishman would I be if I didn’t give Ireland back to the Irish? And what kind of Irishman would I be if I did not tell the Scots to look after themselves? They’re a completely alien culture anyway. They think Robert Burns is a great poet. They think haggis is a delicacy as opposed to a hazardous waste problem. Their idea of a “game” is seeing who can throw an enormous piece of larch the farthest.

They’re going to be happier in the long run, especially after we get through the period where they claim that we, for some reason, owe them a large amount of money. Remind me to tape a note to the argy-bargy that reads “Do not agree to buy the Scots out.”

Another hallmark of my administration would be a renewed focus on names, specifically on nominative determinism. That’s the idea that one’s name is predictive of one’s life path, for example people named McCracken who become chiropractors.

The straw that broke BoJo’s back was his appointment of a deputy chief whip who turned out to enjoy groping men’s bottoms. His name? Chris Pincher. A whip named Pincher who gropes? Trust me to see that kind of disaster coming.

Would I be able to deal forcefully with my native land when it comes to diplomacy? Let me put it this way. My first move will be to demand that the USA call soccer football and call football something else. Fickleball. Fiathlon. Furling. It probably has to begin with “f,” but that’s not my problem. It’s just way too confusing the way things are now.

If I meet with resistance, my next move will be to offer blue states, where people are sick of all the things the Supreme Court has done and will continue to do for years and years to come, the chance to secede and join Britain.

Why move to another country when you can stay put and be in one? We’ve got strong gun laws, abortion rights and (once we’re back in the EU) sensible climate policies.

And if you want more ... if you want more, more, more ... jump, for my government. (Note to self: meet with Pointer Sisters to discuss intellectual property issues)