“Another drink, Sir?”
The Right Honourable Boris Johnson didn’t look like he needed another drink. He reclined in awkward repose upon a blue velvet 18th century chaise longue, resplendent in a silk Japanese robe and little else. He turned his head towards the very nice man who was offering him another drink.
“A humble measure would suit me decorously, old bean!” Boris replied, with some enthusiasm.
His obliging companion was his permanently irritated butler, Snetterton.
“And what form will the humble measure take this time, Sir?”
“Oh. Well – what was the last one?”
“The last one was a creme de menthe, Sir,” replied Snetterton, eyebrow twitching furiously. “The one before that, was a Pernod.”
Before the bemused Boris could answer, an almighty crash and shower of shattered glass erupted from the bay windows, encouraged no doubt by the garishly-attired figure travelling through it apace. Boris sat up with a start, causing the silken robe to suppress yet less of his sturdy assemblage. Snetterton tutted.
“It would appear that Mr Nigel Farage is here to see you, Sir.”
“Farage! Bing-bang-bully-o for that! Well, if it’s Farage invading my supplicatory shack I suppose it had better be pints all round, what!”
Snetterton effectuated the most subtle eye roll known to man.
“Certainly, Sir. Two pints of what, would you suggest?”
“Chablis, if you will, Snetterton. Nigel! What are you playing at you dastardly fopdoodle?” Boris flung his arms wide, inviting a manly embrace.
Farage tolerated this unflattering reception, on the grounds that he had been called far worse.
While Snetterton retreated to the drinks cabinet, Nigel got uneasily to his feet and limped towards what he deemed to be a distinctly uninviting-looking Boris. Keen to avoid any physical contact, Nigel perched himself at the far end of the chaise longue and cast furtive glances in the direction of an industrious Snetterton.
“Quite an entrance you made there, chum,” remarked Boris. “That calls for a drink! Huzzah!”
“It was your bloody dogs!” Nigel cried. “They chased me all the way from the bloody carpark.”
“It’s not a carpark, you ridiculous peasant, it is a sweeping approach.”
Snetterton returned with two magnificent pints of Chablis and the mood improved immediately.
“So, what brings you here?” asked Boris, hardly noticing that a small pool of Chablis had gathered in his navel.
“Well, as a fellow Brexiteer and notorious trouser-dropper, I’ve been worried about you,” replied Nigel. “All this to-do about the general election and you’re nowhere to be seen! What’s going on?”
“Aha, well, Bozza here has had some pergravis pursuits on his hands, I tell you. All in preparation for that most auspicious of dates – 10th June!”
“10th June?” queried Nigel, his brows knotting so tightly it would take a brawny sailor to untie them. “The election is on the 8th June!”
“Damn and blast the buggering election!” blustered Boris. “No, no, no man. No. Lucy Brazier’s spanking new novel – PorterGirl – The Vanishing Lord – is released on 10th and there’s going to be almighty carousing in Cambridge on the very day! Broadcast across the globe by all manner of technical jiggery-pokery. I’ve invented a pair of self-removing trousers for this very occasion and it has taken up all my time. Old Bozza hasn’t even had a moment to consider this election whiffle-waffle.”
“Blimey, I bet the Prime Minister’s furious!”
“Actually, it was her that suggested it,” Boris paused to take a large swig of Chablis. “Can’t think why…”
“She was probably concerned about you coming out with more of that 15th century gutter talk…”
“And that’s another thing!” Boris brightened immediately. “There’s plenty of fine medieval trash-talking and lashings of rumpy-pumpy in the new book! Huzzah!”
“Well, it sounds utterly marvellous,” said Nigel, clasping his hands together with glee. “Where can I get my hands on a copy?”
“It’s available on pre-order now!” replied Boris, only a small amount of Chablis dribbling from his chin. “Whatever the result next Thursday it’s bound to be horrific for all concerned – The Vanishing Lord will be just the thing to cheer up the hoi polloi and idiot elite alike!”