After landing at London Stansted, London, me and the family had an easy drive with our small security detail of 12 cars to David Lammy’s cabin down in Kent, England. Big Dave was there to greet us.
“Welcome to Chevening, JD,” he said.
“Good to see you again,” I replied.
“Let me show you, Usha and the kids around.”
I have to say that I found the place a bit small and dingy, but I kept my thoughts to myself. I wasn’t there to upset anyone.
“What’s this room?” I asked.
Big Dave looked blank.
One of his advisers chipped in. “It’s the bedroom,” she said.
“That’s it,” Dave echoed. “It’s the bedroom”.
“Nice,” I said. Maybe the bed had been a clue. Nothing gets past BD.
After a short rest, we all went downstairs. BD suggested we go over to the private chapel.
“Suits me,” I said. “Let’s get down to a half-hour power pray. Though best to agree the prayer agenda. Don’t want to confuse the almighty. OK. Are you ready? One, two, three, pray.”
The next day started with a short walk around the garden, followed by top level discussions.
“Let’s start with Gaza,” said Big Dave.
“Fine by me. You go first.”
“Well, the situation is appalling. What shall we do about it?”
“No idea. The Donald wants to turn it into a Mediterranean Riviera resort.”
“Maybe later. How about we both say how appalled we are and that we will have more talks about it soon?”
“That works for me,” I said. “Let’s move on to Ukraine. It would be nice if that Zelenskyy guy was a bit more grateful for everything we’ve done for him.”
“Mmm. I’m not sure that’s quite the best place to start. Could we agree the war has been terrible and that President Putin needs to accept a ceasefire?”
“I’ll need to check that out with the president.”
“Of course,” Big Dave nodded vigorously. “So that’s about it. Everything sorted. Where would the world be without us. How about a spot of fishing on the lake?”
It was a top morning. Poor old Dave just stood there cluelessly holding his rod while the kids reeled in fish after fish.
“What am I doing wrong?” he groaned.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I had previously arranged with the frogmen to attach a whole load of fish to my kids’ hooks. You don’t want to go disappointing the little ones.
There was just time for one last round of competitive prayer and then it was time to move on.
“It’s been good seeing you again, BD.”
“And you, JD.”
A few hours later, after a short visit to the quaint Hampton Court resort and spa next to the Thames – the kids somehow managed to get lost in the maze – and our motorcade pulled into our quaint little manor house in the village of Dean in the heart of the historic Cotswold mountains. There to greet us was our tour guide for the week. A rather creepy, needy guy called George Osborne.
Ozzy is a strange fellow. Kept saying how he used to be chancellor of the exchequer and would I like to come on his podcast. Said it was him and David Cameron who were responsible for austerity.
“Call me Mega,” he laughed nervously. “Making England Great Again.”
I guess he’s just down on his luck these days. Nothing better to do than talk about how he used to be a someone and fix up bespoke holidays for the rich and famous like me. Still, I didn’t want to kick a man when he was down. So it was best to humour him. After all, he did arrange the rental.
“I’ve arranged a small drinks reception,” he said. “Just a few Tory politicians who are keen to see you.”
Personally I couldn’t think of anything worse. Wasting time with a whole load of deadbeats who would be out of power for the foreseeable future. But needs must. I am doing God’s work.
Later that evening I found myself cornered by some dude called Robert Jenrick, who insisted he was the real leader of the Tory party.
“Don’t you hate foreigners?” he said. “I wouldn’t want my daughters to be surrounded by bearded blokes from inferior cultures who turn up here uninvited. No present company excepted. No offence.”
“None taken.”
I woke up the next morning and switched on the radio to the British Broadcasting Communism. How do the limeys cope with socialists taking over their airwaves? Just endless white noise about caring for foreigners. What’s wrong with a little recreational xenophobia? My irritation was interrupted by my phone ringing. A woman called Kemi Something.
“I’m leader of the Tory party,” she pleaded.
“What?”
“I”m leader of the Tory party. Can we meet?”
“Sorry. Busy. Am off to the Daylesford Farm shop. You can’t get any decent monterey jack cheese round here.”
Click.
Just then a policeman arrived. I’d been caught fishing without a licence. I could have been liable for a £2,500 fine. But he said he’d let me off this time. That’s the last time I trust Big Dave to arrange an expedition for me. As the police car pulled away, I saw a crowd of women waving pictures of me on placards. It was nice to be wanted. The Brits made me feel so welcome. Ozzy told me they were singing: “We love you, JD Vance / Our lives thou dost enhance.”
That just left time for a late breakfast meeting with Nigel Farage. There’s a guy you don’t want to get too close to early in the morning. His breath reeked of cigarettes and booze. He seemed surprised I had come to the most dangerous country on the planet for my holidays. I suggested we start with a quick 45-minute prayer session to seek God’s guidance on rounding up foreigners and deporting them.
It was almost time to leave for Scotland. Just needed to check in with the president ahead of his meeting with Vladimir Putin.
“How’s things, Mr President?” I asked.
“All good here, JD. All packed and ready for the trip to Russia.”
“Don’t you mean Alaska?”
“That’s what I said. Russia is Alaska.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Do try and keep up. There’s a Nobel peace prize to be won.”
What could possibly go wrong?