Dave cast an appreciative eye at his wife’s bikini-clad figure. He made a mental note to suggest a night out together, away from the kids – maybe they could go clubbing and watch the sun rise as they staggered back to the villa? He smiled as he thought of the nights they’d danced away back in the Nineties, when Sam called him “Ravey Davey” as he waved his glow stick in the air…
Dave’s reverie was broken by the sound of his phone. Dammit! Everyone knew he didn’t want to be disturbed. “Yes?” he snapped.
“What ho, Dazza! Boris here!”
“What do you want?”
“Cripes! You sound like a Scotsman who’s just been handed the bill. Awfully sorry for intruding on your well deserved hols, but I didn’t want you getting alarmed by my proposed sally on to the back benches. You mustn’t think this is a threat to your position as our Glorious Leader. I honestly could not imagine anything that lay at a further distance from the truth. 'Loyalty’, 'collective responsibility’, 'team player’ – these shall be my watchwords.”
“Your speech on Europe didn’t sound particularly loyal.”
“Just trying to be helpful, Dave, sort of a good cop, bad cop thing. Now you can go to Brussels and say, 'Look what’ll happen if you don’t give me a good deal’.”
“Yes, well, why don’t we talk about this when I get back to London?”
“An excellent scheme. I shall await our encounter with all the anticipation of a virgin bride, hearing her husband’s tread as he marches down the corridor to her chamber. Toodle-pip!”
Back in his London eyrie, the Mayor of London put down the phone. How he hated playing the part of Boris, the amiable buffoon! He pulled off his yellow wig and scratched the steely-grey buzzcut that was his natural hair.
“Not much longer now,” he told himself.
“Soon the keys to No 10 will be mine, and the whole world will know who I really am!”
The walls of the office echoed to his laughter. Bwa-ha-ha-haaaa!