The Lockdown Diaries

Monday 30th March, 2020

I decide to keep a journal detailing my thoughts, feelings and activities over the coming weeks. Who knows, in generations to come it may prove to be an invaluable document of the extraordinary times we're living in, perhaps even equal in importance to Samuel Pepys' diary or Casanova's memoirs.

Had an egg for breakfast. Went out for a run. Came home. Stared out the window for a bit. Went back to bed.

Tuesday 31st March, 2020

I wake up to an email from work informing me I'm covered under the UK government's employee retention scheme. I call my accountant, who tells me my finances are in pretty good shape but I may want to reconsider investing in that hula-hoop factory in Seoul.

I make myself a cup of tea and seize the opportunity while my housemate's having a shower to watch some TV. Channel 4 are showing back-to-back episodes of Come Dine With Me, which is just taking the piss if you ask me. Elsewhere on what quaintly used to be referred to as the Palace of Varieties, Cagney and Lacey are close to cracking another case and a man starts shouting at me for paying too much for my car insurance. I try to tell him I don't have a car, but I'm not sure he heard me because another advert came on. I'll just have to catch him later.

I switch off the TV and decide to catch up with some reading. I've just finished Graham Greene's The Power and the Glory, and now I'm torn between Evelyn Waugh's Scoop and Harry Hill's Tim the Tiny Horse. This is a bit of a conundrum because I like Evelyn Waugh's darkly satirical tone, but then I also like Harry Hill's blithe whimsy. But which is better? There's only one way to find out... Read both, obviously.

Wednesday 1st April, 2020

In the middle of making lunch when I get a phone call from Buckingham Palace.

"Lizzy Baby!" I exclaim brightly, giving my spaghetti hoops a good stir. "How's things? You keeping okay?"

"Fuckin' hell, Rich," she says. "This year's turnin' into a right annus horribilis and no mistake."

I politely suggest she watches her language in case there are corgis listening, but, undeterred, she launches into a foul-mouthed tirade about Harry and Meghan "squatting" at Frogmore House, Andrew "knocking around with that fuckin' kiddie-fiddler" and Charles' recent brush with coronavirus.

"With all that coughin' we thought it was the fags at first," she says. "Well, you know Camilla's on sixty-a-day, don't you? Wills gets 'em for her from the duty-free."

I tell her we've all just got to hang in there and wait for this to blow over, but she starts going on about missing her bingo on a Sunday night and how the Duke of Edinburgh just sits around all day in front of the telly watching documentaries about Nazis and sharks. Mercifully my dinner comes to the boil, allowing me to cut the call short.

I empty the saucepan onto a plate, but as soon as I'm about to tuck in another call comes through, this time from a restricted number.

"Hello-?" I answer warily.

"Richard, it's Boris!" a cheerful but croaky voice replies. "Listen, I don't suppose you know anything about boiling eggs, at all? It's just I popped a couple in the microwave before and they've made a terrible mess..."

Thursday 2nd April, 2020

I discover an old ouija board while cleaning out the attic. My housemate's apprehensive about using it, but I manage to convince him it'll make for a great evening's entertainment alongside a few bottles of Stella and a takeaway pizza.

We make contact with Henry VIII, who reveals he's going steady with Marilyn Monroe, and Michael Jackson, which gets awkward at one point when he mistakes us for a Channel 4 news team. Then another voice comes through the ether, one that refuses to identify itself but takes an immediate liking to my housemate.

"Trust in me," it says, making my housemate's hands tremble with every move of the planchette. "I've always relied on the kindness of strangers..."

I kick the ouija board away and hand my housemate a fresh beer to calm his nerves.

"You know what this means?" I ask him, a bead of sweat trailing down his ashen, panic-strewn face. "Either that was Kaa from The Jungle Book or Liz Taylor's on the prowl for a new husband..."

Friday 3rd April, 2020

[Dialling tone, then-]

"Hello, NHS 111," the operator says. "Are you calling on behalf of yourself or someone else?"

"Someone else, actually," I reply awkwardly, lighting a cigarette. "I found this ouija board up in the attic, you see, and I thought it would be a bit of a laugh messing around with it. Now my housemate seems to be possessed by a malevolent spirit who insists on vomiting green bile, keeps making outrageous claims about my mother and violently moves bedroom furniture around by psychokinesis."

"Mm-hmm," she says, tapping at a keyboard. "And where's your housemate at the moment?"

"I've bound him up in his bedroom," I reply.

"Any other symptoms, like a cough or fever?"

"Nah, just the diabolism, really."

"Well, you were right to call the service," she assures me before detailing a series of easy to digest instructions on how to perform a home exorcism using only a clothes peg, a funnel and a cooked chicken. Since we don't have one until the weekly shop on Monday I'm forced to improvise.

When it gets dark I sneak into the garden with a bin bag and wait for next door's cat. Let's be having you, Mr Mackenzie, you little bastard.

Saturday 4th April, 2020

My housemate's cured, thanks in no small part to my bravery and courage. (Hard to explain, and there doesn't seem much point since this is a first-person narrative and I was there, but suffice to say the next door neighbours didn't get much sleep with a demonic cat to contend with.) Just to be on the safe side, I keep my housemate tied up in his room for the rest of the day, allowing me access to Netflix for a change.

At 4pm I  get a phone call from Trump asking if I want to join him, Boris, Putin, Xi Jinping, Angela Merkel, Emmanuel Macron, Narendra Modi and Kim Jong-un in a Skype-poker game later.

Bring it on!

Sunday 5th April, 2020

I drag myself out of bed, bleary-eyed and sick to my stomach, and head downstairs for a rejuvenating cup of tea. Suddenly my mobile starts ringing, the aggressive thrum-thrum of the ringtone against the kitchen table cutting through my hungover brain like a chainsaw.

"What up, blud!" Putin says jovially, clearly trying to disguise his own delicate state. "That was some game last night. Just spoken to Donald: he's buzzing about discharging America's national debt onto you!"

"Shit, I forgot about that," I reply, taking one drag on a cigarette before queasily stubbing it out. "What the fuck am I going to do?"

"Don't sweat it, dog!" he says. "Just give your bank a call in the morning and ask if you can extend your overdraft by $22 trillion."

"That's not very likely, is it?"

"Okay, then, I'll buy the debt off you. For a small favour, naturally..."

"What kind of favour?"

"Oh, I dunno," he says disingenuously. "Maybe you could ask the Olympic Committee to reconsider St Petersburg's bid for the 2032 Games-? Like I say, it's no biggie..."

G20 Christmas Party Special

24th December, 2019

At the G20 Christmas party. Owing to the current political climate, this year's event is a much more restrained affair than usual. Instead of pâté de fois gras, dwarves carrying trays of cocaine and, of course, the ever popular wet t-shirt competition, guests are treated to a gluten-free vegan buffet, a Secret Santa present trail and a chance to show off their vocal skills on the karaoke machine. It's underwhelming to say the least.

The evening kicks off with the usual meet-and-greet session, where heads of state get to catch-up and welcome new faces before the real festivities begin. Narendra Modi confides to me he hates this part because he always gets mistaken for a waiter.

"I'm not just some bloody dogsbody, y'know," he says grumpily, handing me a glass of prosecco. "I transformed India into a potential superpower, d'you hear? A SUPERPOWER!"

He starts comparing India's rising GDP next to European nations, but breaks off when Donald Trump catches his eye and beckons him over.

"Hey, Jeevsie!" he shouts, waving an empty glass. "More tigers' piss over here!"

As Modi goes to get him a top-up, Boris Johnson grabs my arm and asks if I'll settle a dispute he's having with Emmanuel Macron. Citing Agincourt as a precedent, Boris reckons that a handful of navvies with a couple of bull terriers could easily take on the French President's proposed European army and deliver a spectacular win. When Macron refers to this as an ethno-nationalist fairy-tale, Boris calls him a garlic-munching turd who can't even handle a bunch of irate Parisian lollipop ladies. An offended Macron drops his trousers and aggressively waves his penis at Boris, calling his mother a hamster and speculating that his father smelt of elderberries. Boris rolls up his sleeves ready to plant a couple of punches when Angela Merkel and Justin Trudeau rush over and separate them.

"Fighting won't get us anywhere!" Trudeau says, flashing a look at Merkel in the hope his virtue-signalling will gain her approval. "We've all a got to work together if we're ever going to achieve global peace and prosperity..."

Scott Morrison suddenly bursts into a mocking rendition of "Old Man River" complete with jazz hands, causing everyone to explode with laughter save a red-faced Trudeau. When Mauricio Macri asks him if he's imitating a Red Indian now I decide to step in.

"Come on, this is meant to be a party," I remind the assembled guests. "Let's just get on with having some fun, okay?"

Jean-Claude Juncker seconds this and announces that it's time to reveal who won this year's raffle. Two functionaries carry a picnic hamper onto the stage and open it to reveal a treasure trove of gifts, including a copy of Stomzy's new album, a signed photograph of a scowling Greta Thunberg, and a large plush toy of Ru-Paul.

"And the winning ticket is... number 636," Juncker says, pulling a reel of raffle tickets out of his pocket and meticulously scrutinising them one by one.

"I win! I win!" Xi Jinping squeals, waving a ticket above his head. Pockets of polite applause patter softly across the room accompanied by the sound of groans and raffle tickets being screwed up.

"This is bullshit!" Trump says. "That bastard's ticket is only one number up from mine."

"C'mon, Don," I whisper. "It's the luck of the draw!"

"Face it, Trumpman, you beaten!" Xi chuckles, motioning a personal assistant to take the hamper. "All your prizes are belong to us!"

"How much do you want?" Trump asks, pulling out his wallet.

"Fifteen hundred dollar," Xi replies.

Trump licks his thumb and starts counting a wad of banknotes, grunting with annoyance when he realises he's $400 short. He scans the room looking for someone to borrow the money from, but the other delegates indignantly fold their arms and turn away. Thinking on his feet, Trump rummages through his pockets for an item of value, only to find a half empty, well-chewed biro. He looks back at the guests and picks out an easy mark stuffing his face at the buffet.

"Boris, c'mere! I got something for you..."

Boris scoops up a handful of Dukkah-crusted squash wedges and waddles over to Trump.

"You see this pen? This pen, Boris, is a piece of history. You know who this belonged to?"

Boris shakes his head blankly.

"Abraham Lincoln," Trump says slowly. "Can you imagine that? Abraham Lincoln. The greatest statesman the world has ever seen. This pen, Boris, is a political heirloom, passed from one President to another. Ulysses S. Grant, Ted Roosevelt, Frank Roosevelt, Dopey Eisenhower, Tricky Dicky, The Gipper - they all used this pen, Boris. Great men acting in the service of their country. And before all those guys, those giants of the American political scene, Honest Abe, himself... You know he wrote the Gettysburg Address with this pen? Used it to sign the National Banking Act? Not to mention the greatest proclamation of liberty the world has ever seen: the Declaration of Independence."

"Gosh!" Boris exclaims, signalling Modi for another drink. "Must be worth a few bob, then!"

"Oh, millions," Trump says, putting his arm around Boris. "But between you and me, Johnny Boy, with a national debt of twenty-three trillion dollars you've gotta be prepared to make sacrifices. Besides, if all goes to plan next month and you guys finally cut yourselves free from those jokers in Strasbourg, you're gonna need a little something stashed away to help you through the transition period. You know... until we can get together and work out something a little more permanent."

"How much?" Boris asks, practically slobbering all over his shoes.

"Two thousand dollars," Trump sniffs.

"Sold!" Boris says, reaching for his wallet.

"Well, we like to help our friends, don't we?" Trump smirks, snatching the money from Boris' hand. He quickly peels off $1500 and gives it to Xi.

"Chángmìng băisuì!" Xi smiles before gesturing his assistant to hand the hamper over to the President. Trump leans over to me conspiratorially.

"You make your own luck in this world, Dicky Boy," he says with an emphatic nod. "Now get that fat, defeatist ass of yours humping, okay?"

As I lug the ill-gotten gains towards the elevator a delighted Boris shows his new treasure to Merkel, who promptly slaps him and enquires if his parents ever thought of asking Eton for a refund.

* * * * *

10:30pm, and a sleepy Mohammad bin Salman, thumb in mouth, all tuckered out from the Secret Santa trail, is being carried from the main hall by members of his entourage. Normally I'd say this would be for the best as we're now in the cabaret slot before the karaoke and some of the entertainment gets a little blue, but this year former comedian turned statesman Volodymir Zelensky has volunteered himself to liven things up, and the atmosphere is proving to be anything but raucous. He opens with the one about the man who complains to the doctor that his penis has turned orange, but loses his thread halfway through and messes up the punchline about the man sitting at home all day watching porn and eating nacho cheese Doritos. He cocks up joke after joke, each one failing worse than the last, until one member of the audience decides they can't take any more.

"My wife's just come back from the West Indies," Zelensky offers, waiting for someone to give him the feedline.

"What, Cuba?" Vladimir Putin shouts with mock credulity.

"No, the other one..." Zelensky half-whispers, taking in the sea of disgruntled faces glaring back at him as a bead of sweat trails from his brow.

"Haiti-?" Putin asks, toying with his prey.

"JAMAICA!" Zelensky snarls.

"No, I thought you did," Putin deadpans, spreading his hands as sniggers ripple through the hall.

"Well, it... it doesn't matter, anyway," Zelensky says, trying to regain composure as his lip begins to wobble. "The wife and I have been fighting a lot recently. She threw a lettuce at me the other week, and that was just the tip of the iceberg..."

"That one's older than Peter the Great!" Putin announces, rising to his feet despite Recep Tayyip Erdoğan urging him not to make a scene.

"WELL LET'S SEE YOU HAVE A GO, YOU FUCKING MIDGET!" Zelensky screams, throwing the microphone to the floor. "COME ON! CRIMEA 2.0: RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW!"

Putin nods solemnly before walking up to the stage. He motions one of the functionaries for a fresh microphone, casually slips a hand into his pocket and lets rip.

"At the entrance exam for the KGB they asked me what I'd do if I had to arrest my own mother-in-law. 'Only what any other married man would do,' I answered. 'Call for backup...'"

Boris, Trump, Jair Bolsonaro, Giuseppe Conte and Mark Rutte all let out an enormous belly laugh as Trudeau shakes his head dispprovingly, looking once more to Merkel as his moral barometer.

"How many Frenchmen does it take to defend Paris?" Putin asks. "Fuck knows, they've never even tried."

Merkel falls about laughing, slapping Macron on the back so hard it looks as though all those spicy sweet potato wedges and glasses of Tignanello are about to take their toll all over the floor. Trudeau turns round to see Boris rocking backwards and forwards in his seat with mirth.

"Quel dommage!" Boris says, picking up on Trudeau's foul mood. "Je m'énerve en ce moment, nègre!"

A broken Trudeau suddenly launches himself at the PM, overturning the table as he forces Boris to the ground and subjecting him to a series of pathetic bitch slaps. Putin watches the scene from the stage, a wry smile playing about his lips.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announces, “you’re witnessing the very definition of a neoconservative: a liberal who's just been mugged...”

Thunderous applause fills the hall punctured by whoops and wolf whistles. Putin turns to a green-faced Zelensky watching from the wings.

"Comrade Wolf knows who to eat," Putin quips, eyes darkening with feral intensity. He thanks the other guests for his warm reception and asks Juncker if it’s time to fire up the karaoke machine. No sooner has it been set up, Putin launches into a spirited rendition of “Yes Sir, I Can Boogie”, shaking his hips with uncharacteristic abandon.

I slip out the fire door for a cigarette, practically climbing over Pédro Sanchez and Christine Lagarde as they enjoy a good smooch on the stairs, when I discover Modi on the phone to Ram Nath Kovind, informing him in no uncertain terms that if he expects his PM to spend the next summit waiting on people all night then he can fuck right off.

He finishes his call and I offer him a cigarette, which he almost burns right down to the filter with one drag. I ask him if the G20 is doomed to failure because everyone's pulling in different directions and protecting their own interests, but he tells me he's had a hard night looking after self-important pricks like me so I can shove my geopolitical musings up my fat, pampered arse.

With that, the fire door suddenly swings open to reveal a shirtless Trump, breathless with excitement.

"Where the fuck have you been, Dicky Boy?" he pants. "You're missing the party! Merkel's just done a striptease to Nicki Minaj, and now she's firing apples out of her pussy..."

US-North Korea Summit Special

Minute by minute we shape the world, and it's not always grand gestures that make the biggest differences. For what it's worth, I still feel a ridiculous sense of pride that I was the one who gave a 13-year-old Stanley Kubrick my Graflex camera just to get the little shit out of my hair during chess tournaments in Greenwich Village. On the other hand, I can't quite shake the feeling I'm partly responsible for the nightmare that followed after telling my socially awkward college roommate Ted Bundy he could have any woman he wanted.

The point is, we can't always predict the outcome of our actions regardless of whether they're based on selflessness or good intentions. Who knows what's going to happen in this new spirit of détente between the United States and North Korea... We could be facing a future of mutual trust and cooperation, or a powder keg of resentment waiting to blow up in our faces. Either way, I'll be enjoying an extended holiday aboard the international space station until it settles.

Prologue: 27th July, 1953

"Will you look at that!" Kim Il-sung exclaims, pointing at William Harrison Jr.'s signature on his copy of the armistice agreement. "What was he writin' with, a bleedin' hammer?"

"You should see Atlee's handwriting," I reply. "You need a Rosetta Stone just to read one of his Christmas cards."

"It's blindin', though, innit?" Kim smiles. "I've been pushin' for this ever since them bleedin' Yanks turned up. If it weren't for them we'd be sittin' in Seoul right now, polishin' off a couple of light ales."

"There'll be other chances for unification," I reassure him, patting his shoulder. "The important thing now is the peace treaty."

"Are you havin' a laugh?" he snorts. "If I ask for peace I'll be lyin' in a shallow grave covered in quicklime faster than you can say 'My Old Man's a Rice Farmer'. I dunno about you, but that's not how I wanna end up, mate."

"But you can't just leave it at a ceasefire! How're people supposed to know the war's over?"

"Well, it says 'ere, dunnit?" he says, picking up the armistice and putting on his glasses. "'Complete cessation of hostilities by all armed forces'... blah blah blah... 'demilitarised zone'... blah blah blah... 'repatriation of all POWs to the side they belonged to at the time of capture'... blah blah blah... What more d'you want?"

"It's not very clear."

"Who's the Supreme Leader here?" he asks, glaring at me over the rim of his bifocals. "Me or you?"

"You are," I sigh, deferring to yet another one of his ego trips.

"Right. So stop your fuckin' rabbit, yeah? It's gettin' on my tits."

I walk over to the window and look out at the ruins of Pyongyang; a sea of dust rages in the sunbeams projecting themselves over the rubble, scorched wood and metal shards that used to be the capital city.

"It's gonna cost a few bob sorting this lot out," I say, lighting a cigarette.

"Yeah, well, I spoke to Zhou Enlai this mornin'," Kim says, shuffling the papers on his desk and drawing a line through some of the names in red ink. "He reckons he can get Mao to bung us a few quid. Then there's Moscow, of course. I tell you, when we get the palace done up I'm havin' some of those carpets like they've got at the Kremlin. I dunno if they're sable or what, but just walkin' on 'em's like gettin' a foot massage."

"And what about the people?"

"Well, they can get their own bleedin' carpets, can't they?"

"No, I meant rebuilding the infrastructure."

"...We'll sort somethin' out," he says vaguely. "Socialism isn't just helpin' other people, it's givin' 'em the power to do it themselves, innit?"

"Well-"

"Right-?"

"I suppose..."

"Yeah!" he snarls. "You know I'm right, Rich, everyone knows I'm right; history's gonna prove it, yeah?"

"Well, if you say so."

"Just you wait, mate," he says. "In fifty years' time, the Democratic People's Republic of Korea is gonna be the envy of the world! There'll be cinemas in every home, no one's gonna have to work... It's gonna be paradise, yeah? Paradise on Earth! We've just gotta put in a bit of elbow grease, is all."

Suddenly General Nam Il pokes his head round the door, still hanging off its hinges.

"All right, Kim? Comin' down the snooker hall?"

"Yeah, go on, then." He rises from his chair, places his hand on his chest and starts bellowing "The Red Flag".

"The people's flag is deepest red / It shroudeth oft our martyred dead /And ere their limbs grew stiff and cold / Their hearts' blood dyed its every fold... C'mon!" he motions, taking out his pistol and aiming it at my forehead. I click my heels together and join in.

"So raise the scarlet standard high / Beneath its shade we'll live or die / Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer / We'll keep the red flag flying here..."

"Pukka!" he beams.

27th April, 2018

"And then he bites its head off!" Kim Jong-un says, gesticulating wildly as he leans across the table. "And everyone's like, 'Euuuugh!' but he's like, 'I don't care!' And then she's like, 'I wanna go out with you,' and he's like-"

"Oh, Oldboy's a great movie," Moon Jae-in cuts in firmly but cheerfully as he turns to his advisors. "Isn't it, guys-?"

"...That's right, Mr President," foreign minister Kang Kyung-wha nods awkwardly, flashing a look of desperation at unification minister Cho Myoung-gyon. "I love it."

"I love it, too," Cho says, grinning blankly at Kim.

"He likes his movies!" Kim Yo-jung smiles, patting her brother's head.

"Well, it certainly sounds like it!" Moon chuckles, turning to face Kim. "But there is something very, very important I think Mr Kim wants to talk to me about. Would you like to talk to me about it, Mr Kim?"

"Maybe..." Kim says sheepishly, crossing his arms and burying his chin into his chest.

"I think you do, Jongie," his sister says softly. "Would you like to tell Mr Moon what you want to talk about-?"

"Armistice," Kim mumbles. "Want to talk about the armistice..."

"What about the armistice, Jongie? Hmm-?"

"End it," he says, studying the scuffmarks on his shoe caps.

"Well, I think that's a wonderful idea, Mr Kim!" Moon replies, leading his ministers in a round of applause. Kim's face lights up and he giggles happily.

"Our proposal is a simple one, Mr President," Vice Chairman Kim Yong-chol says. "That is, denuclearisation along the Korean Peninsula and an end to the American military presence in your country."

"Well, we'd have to consult our delegation in Washington before drafting any such motion," Kang Kyung-wha clarifies.

"Do you think the United States would be amenable to this action?" North Korean foreign minister Chou Son-hui enquires.

"We'd have to confirm the details of the peace settlement first," Moon says, "but I don't think-"

"Spike Lee remade Oldboy!" Kim suddenly says. "It wasn't as good, though."

"No," Moon says softly. "I gather it wasn't. But, anyway, as I was saying, once we've negotiated full terms it's entirely likely that President Trump would-" 

"Have you met him?" Kim asks.

"Yeah. It's entirely likely that-"

"You've met the President of the United States-?" Kim says, genuinely astonished. "Like, the actual President?"

"Yes, I have," Moon replies, his patience clearly starting to waver.

"Do you think I could?"

"I don't know," Moon shrugs. "Maybe if you prove to him you're serious about denuclearisation, perhaps?"

"Wow!" Kim gasps. "Did you hear that, Rich?"

"I did, yeah," I reply, returning to my crossword book discreetly tucked between the minutes of previous inter-Korean summits.

"Meeting the American President would be, like, the coolest thing ever!" he says. "No, cooler than that, it would be ice ice baby! Ding-ding-ding-ding-diddle-ing-ding! Ding-ding-ding-ding-diddle-ing-ding..."

Kim rises from his seat and starts bouncing around the room, punching the air as he launches into Vanilla Ice's one-and-only hit.

"All right, stop! / Collaborate and listen / Jongie's back with my brand new invention..."

As the entire room watches Kim with horrified fascination, Kim Yo-jung turns to the President of the Supreme People's Assembly, Kim Yong-nam.

"It's gonna be a bitch getting him to sleep tonight," she sighs.

12th June, 2018

"Now remember what we rehearsed, Mr President," I say, brushing some dandruff off Trump's shoulder. "You walk up to Kim, greet him formally on behalf of the United States and-"

"Has anyone ever told you you're a real pain in the ass?" he cuts in, snatching my hand away. "I'm the fucking President, okay? A statesman. I don't need some pussy like you telling me how to handle myself."

The North Korean delegation arrives, flanked by an entourage of dangerous-looking men in sunglasses and Armani suits. At the centre of the throng is Kim, eyes wide, panting with excitement as he stares open-mouthed at the President. He walks slowly towards Trump, his tongue practically hanging out.

"Shalom!" Trump says, raising his hand in a Vulcan greeting. The North Koreans stare blankly at us for a moment before conferring amongst themselves.

"What gives, Dicky Boy?" Trump says, eyes narrowing in confusion. "I thought you said these guys were Jewish?"

"No, Mr President," I sigh, "Juche. It's a sort of hybrid of Stalinism and North Korean nationalism that-."

"Yeah, whatever," he booms, turning to face Kim again. "It's all just Fu Manchu talk to me, anyways. How're you doing, Rocket Man?"

"OH MY DAD!" Kim squeals, grabbing Trump's hand and shaking it wildly as he turns to address the men and women of the world's media. "IT'S THE PRESIDENT! I'M WITH THE ACTUAL PRESIDENT!"

"The one and only," Trump says, pulling his hand away and wiping it on his lapel.

"I'M THE KING OF THE WORLD!" Kim shouts, waving triumphantly as his advisors fidget uncomfortably.

"Yeah, well, let's not get ahead of ourselves, kiddo," Trump smirks.

"Will you sign this for me?" Kim asks, signalling one of his delegates, who reaches into a briefcase and takes out a laminated publicity photograph of Trump.

"It's a pleasure!" Trump says, setting to work with a marker pen.

"That's Kim with an 'i', sir," I offer helpfully.

"Go fuck yourself," Trump mutters, returning the photograph to a delighted Kim.

"This is AMAZING!" he squeals again, holding the autograph close.

"It must be a real honor for you," Trump says, winking for the cameras. "I bet you people thought you'd never get to meet a living, breathing President of the US of A."

"Dad met Bill Clinton once!"

"Clinton-?!" Trump snorts. "He was a lousy President!"

"Oh no, he wasn't President then. That was after he got kicked out for lying about an affair."

"Was it?" Trump asks flatly.

"Oh yeah!" Kim continues. "He was a bad man. Meeting you is a much bigger deal! They say in your country this is like Richard Nixon going to China!"

"Well," Trump grins, puffing out his chest. "Who am I to argue with history?"

"That was before he got kicked out," Kim says. "He pretended not to know about some people making his opponents look bad."

"Yeah, whatever!" Trump barks impatiently before pointing at the door to the conference room. "Are we gonna do this thing or not?"

As Kim nods excitedly and rushes on ahead, shouting "¡Arriba, arriba! ¡Ándale, ándale!", Trump leans over to me with a raised eyebrow.

"Call Melania, tell her I'll be home sooner than expected..."

Epilogue: 13th June, 2018

As the credits roll on Rocky IV, I lean over and tap the snoozing President on his shoulder.

"Don, can I ask you something?"

"Shoot, Dicky Boy!"

"What was all that really about with Kim?"

"Diplomacy!" he smiles, stretching his arms in a massive yawn. "You should try it sometime. Start by changing your aftershave: it smells like an explosion in a shit factory."

"Ah, c'mon, Don!" I reason with him. "Everyone else may have you pegged as a boorish, brain-dead arsehole but I know you better than that."

"Look, they asked for a summit and they got one," he snarls, staggering to his feet and cracking open a can of Pepsi from the Air Force One minibar. "If you're looking for self-interest you're pissing into the wind, kiddo."

"Bullshit," I reply, helping myself to a miniature bottle of Jack. "Everything you do is about putting The Don first."

He watches me take a swig, then holds out his hand and coughs. I reach into my pocket and hand him five dollars.

"Okay," he says, taking a seat at his desk, "Trumpology 101: you tell me what you think this is all about, then, Dicky Boy, huh?"

"You agree to lift sanctions if they go ahead with denuclearisation," I offer, "but we both know damn well Kim won't do that because his little firework collection's the only thing standing between him and a bullet in the head."

"Ooh!" he hollers sarcastically. "You learn fast, Dicky Boy!"

"You expect him to break the deal, don't you?"

"I'm counting on it!" he chortles, picking up a paperweight and tracing his fingers around the Presidential seal. "Unless it's slipped your attention, kiddo, there's a trade war coming: what, you think I'm just gonna bend over and let China ream us in the ass?"

"So rather than get into a straight trade war with China - one you couldn't possibly win in the long-term - you get Kim to agree to a settlement he won't be able to keep so you'd have the option of slapping secondary sanctions on China for providing North Korea with economic support."

"What can I say?" he grins, spreading his hands. "That's the art of the deal, Dicky Boy!"

"How much are you worth?"

"Why, how much d'you want?"

"No, I just wanna know," I ask testily. "Three billion-?"

"Three point one."

"How much better can you eat? What can you buy that you can't already afford?"

"The future, Dicky Boy! The future! They say in fifty years those little yellow bastards are gonna be four times richer than us. When I meet the Gipper in the great ranch in the sky I don't wanna have to explain why that Marxism-Leninism crap wasn't finally put to bed under my watch. At least this way I've got a chance to slow 'em down. And you know what's so sweet about it, Dicky Boy? I didn't have to do anything to get the ball rolling, not a goddam thing!"

"As little as possible..."

"Exactly!" he smirks, leaning back in his chair. "I tell ya, I can almost smell that Peace Prize. Well, that and your aftershave."

"Do you really think you deserve it?"

"Shit, if that fat-assed Kraut can get it for bombing the hell out of Cambodia I stand a pretty good chance, don't you think?"

"You nasty, self-serving son of a bitch!" I yell, launching myself across the desk and grabbing his pudgy, thick throat with both hands. Mike Pompeo and John Kelly  rush over and try to loosen my grip as Trump's eyes practically pop out of his ugly, fat, orange head. Suddenly I feel cold metal pressing against the back of my neck.

"It's not worth it, son," a federal agent says, cocking the magnum and brushing it against my ear. "It's really not worth it."

I let go of Trump and place my hands behind my head. As the security staff lead me back to my seat to handcuff me in I look back over my shoulder at Trump.

"Forget it, Rich," one of them whispers, "it's Singapore."

An awkward silence washes over us as the President loosens his collar, all eyes fixed on Trump as his chest rises and falls like a dragon about to unleash an inferno.

"You're a grand old flag, you're a high flyin' flag," he starts singing. "And forever and ever you'll wave..."

"You're the emblem of the land I love / The home of the free and the brave..." the chiefs of staff join in.

"Every heart beats true 'neath the red, white and blue / Where there's ne'er a boast or brag / Should auld acquaintance be forgot / Keep your eye on the grand ol' flag..."

Harry and Meghan: Royal Wedding Special

In my long and relatively interesting life, I've been privileged to observe many of the great romances up close (Burton and Taylor, Plath and Hughes, Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love, etc), but few have touched my heart the way the whirlwind romance between Harry and Meghan has. Indeed, I consider it a great honour to have been there at the beginning and, as you will discover, a key witness in the consolidation of their love through marriage. After all, what is marriage if not the ultimate expression of the most beautiful words in the English language: 'I love you' ('Oh well, if you're paying...' is a pretty good combination too, but it doesn't get you laid as often).

I hereby offer up these pieces as a tribute to both the beautiful couple and Britain's ruling family, so that readers in other countries who perhaps don't have a monarchy or, more regrettably, aren't British can understand the true glory of love. Read on, peasants, and grow.

7th November, 2017

"For God's sake, Harry!" I shout, draining the saucepan over the sink. "If I've told you once, I've told you a million times: if you fill it up to the brim the water's going to bubble onto the hob."

"Yah, soz, Rich," he says, burying his hands awkwardly into his pockets. "Not up on all this cooking-type stuff. Can't we just order out for a pizza or something?"

"I've seen you eat pizza, Harry. Do you seriously think it's going to be romantic proposing to her with tomato sauce smeared all over your face?"

"Well, no..."

"Right. Now shut up and let's get on with it, yeah? What time did you put the chicken on?"

"Put it on what?"

Suddenly a car pulls into the driveway outside Nottingham Cottage. Harry flies into a panic; he stalks up and down the kitchen, wringing his hands and gibbering about being the short, ginger one nobody likes. I do my best to calm him down, offering him a glass of Lucozade and giving his ugly, puckish face a bloody good slap. When he comes to his senses I straighten his collar, wipe his brow and pat his chest reassuringly.

"Go get her, champ," I tell him. "Remember: just be cool, okay?"

"You got it!" he says. He takes a deep breath and opens the front door.

"Hey..." Meghan purrs, looking resplendent in the crisp November night.

"Will you marry me?" Harry asks.

"Jesus, Harry!" I yell. "Let her get her fucking coat off first."

"Yah, soz, Rich!" he says. He motions for her to come in and closes the door. Meghan looks over at me and smiles sweetly.

"Good evening, Miss Markle," I nod, handing her a glass of champagne. As she takes the glass our fingers gently touch: just for a moment, but long enough to register a surge of possibilities.

"Mmm... Something smells good," she says quickly, turning to Harry as she slips off her Christian Louboutin stilletos.

"Yah, it's Lynx Gold," Harry says, puffing out his chest.

"I think Miss Markle means the food, Your Highness," I reply, masking my contempt with class deference. "Harry thought perhaps chicken in blue cheese sauce tonight, ma'am."

"Sounds great," Meghan says, allowing herself a stolen glance in my direction as Harry fires up his Xbox.

"Yah, Rich's a real wiz with this catering lark!" he says, mowing down a whole batallion of Nazis. "Did you know if you fill a saucepan up to the brim it bubbles onto the hob? Amazing!"

"Well, anyway," I continue, ignoring shit-for-brains, "You just sit back and enjoy your evening, Miss Markle; don't worry, I'll take care of everything." As I walk back to the kitchen I turn my head surreptitiously to catch Meghan's gaze once more.

"Er... Rich, can I have a word?" Harry says, pausing his game and following after me like a Border Collie at his master's heel. He pushes the door to and fixes me with a purposeful look. "You haven't forgotten the, erm... Well, you know..." he asks, eyes shifting cautiously towards the crack in the door. I reach into my inside breast pocket and take out the ring.

"Just as you asked for," I tell him. "I picked it up from Cleave and Co. this morning."

"Er... no," he whispers. "I meant the... [Coughs]"

I roll my eyes, reach into my trouser pocket and hand him the packet of three.

"Nice one, Rich!" he exclaims, bumping his fist against my shoulder. "Should I put it on now or later?"

18th May, 2018

We watch with amusement as Harry staggers around the dancefloor, bottle of Stella in hand, slur-rapping along to the sound system.

"When the Prince in the crib, ma / Drop it like it's hot / Drop it like it's hot / Drop it like it's hot / When the paps tryin'-a git at one / Drop it like it's hot / Drop it like it's hot..."

"Little bro's totally bladdered!" Prince William says, knocking back his fifth double vodka and coke of the evening.

"You gotta be to dance to this piece of shit," Kanye West snorts.

"I think it's dreadfully unfair of you to diss Mr Doggy Dogg like that," former Prime Minister John Major says. "I think he's the illest mothersucker in the hood, bar none."

"What the fuck do you know, pencil dick?" Kanye snarls, rising from his chair. "Let me tell you something: that pussy Blair was twice the man you are..."

"Whoa!" I yell, slapping a hand on Kanye's shoulder. "All right, mate - we've all had a few, yeah? Besides, this is Harry's night; we don't want to ruin it, do we?"

"Whatever," Kanye says, slumping himself down and sipping his pint of stout.

"What's with you, dude?" Wills asks. "You've been getting on John's case all night."

"Yes," Major says. "And if I may say so, it's really starting to get on my man-breasts."

"Is it this slavery thing-?" I offer, "Because if it is, we've been through this and you agreed you were being a twat."

"It's not that," Kanye says. "I just don't want to see my little buddy get hurt, is all."

"Why would he get hurt?" Wills says incredulously. "Meghan's a fine filly!"

"That's just it, bro: she can have any man she wants," Kanye ventures before pointing at Harry, now pelvic-thrusting along to "My Humps". "So what's she doing with that red-haired bitch?"

"What're you trying to say?" I ask testily.

"Well, I ain't saying she's a gold digger," Kanye replies, casually adjusting one of his cufflinks, "but she ain't messing with no broke Windsor..."

"That's absolute bollocks," I tell him, rolling up my sleeves in anticipation of landing one right on the smug bastard's face. Suddenly Harry stumbles over to the table, panting like crazy as he rudely takes a swig of my Scotch.

"Best stag do ever, guys!" he bellows, punching the air. "You want to stay here or move on somewhere else?"

"I think here's probably best," Wills says, winking at me. I look over to the bar and scratch my nose. The barmaid nods, and a minute later a frumpy, middle-aged woman in a raincoat approaces the table.

"'Arry Windsor?" she asks in a flat, Brummie accent.

"Yah?" Harry croaks. She breaks into a big smile and throws off the raincoat, revealing a pair of nipple tassels and a G-string. The guys holler and stamp their feet as she launches into a heartfelt tribute to the happy couple, accompanied by a suitably sexy dance.

"For your wedding day, oodles of luck / From your bro, Grandpa Philly and Chuck /Your love may it sparkle / When you marry Miss Markle / And we 'ope she's a really great f-[Last word inaudible over drunken cheers and chanting]."

19th May, 2018 - 12:55pm

"Ah can't get you outta mah head, Lord!" Reverend Michael Curry intones as snores ripple and echo through the hallowed hall of St. George's Chapel. "Your lovin' is all Ah think about!"

I get this is the biggest gig this guy's ever had, or ever will have outside of Cable TV, but milking it like this is just shameless. Thankfully, the Archbishop of Canterbury seems to recognise this too, as he slowly extends his crook behind Reverend Curry's neck.

"All you need is love, mah brothers and sisters! All you need is lo-Arrrggggh!"

The Archbishop takes the stage, surveys the snoozing congregation and bangs his crook against the pulpit. The assembled guests jolt from their slumber, blinking rapidly as the Most Reverend Mr Welby starts the ceremony proper. Harry and Wills leap to their feet, taking their place to the right of the Archbishop. The church organist delivers a sepulchral rendition of "The Real Slim Shady" as Meghan and the Prince of Wales march awkwardly to the head of the aisle. She looks over at me, eyes widening with dawning realisation.

"Dearly beloved," the Archbishop begins, "we are gathered here today in the eyes of God to witness the marriage of Harry Heineken Windsor and Meghan Flava Flav Markle. Since we're overrunning somewhat due to unforeseen circumstances [he flashes a dirty look at Reverend Curry, now bound and gagged in the vestry], and because kick-off is just over an hour away, I think it best if I just blitz this. Who has the ring?"

Harry unceremoniously nudges Wills in the ribs.

"Er... Yah, I do."

"Pass it to the groom, please."

Wills hands the ring to Harry.

"Place the ring on her finger."

Harry takes Meghan's hand and stares at it anxiously.

"Third finger, Your Highness," the Archbishop whispers helpfully.

"Er... Is that including the thumb?" Harry asks.

"No, Your Highness."

"Thanks, Bish!" Harry says, roughly sliding the ring on Meghan's finger.

"Do you, Harry Heineken Windsor, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To love, honour and obey her?"

"Every bloody night!" Harry snorts, making an obscene gesture to the guys in the congregation, prompting a boisterous cheer.

"And do you, Meghan Flava Flav Markle, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? [Checks his watch] To do all the things I asked him?"

"Sure, why not?" Meghan sighs.

"Now this is the point where I have to ask if anyone has any just reason why these two may not be joined in holy matrimony," the Archbishop chuckles, "but I don't think that really counts in this case, does it?"

I stare at my feet, conscious that someone may be looking over at me, waiting for an answer.

"In that case," Welby continues as I close my eyes tightly, "I now pronounce you man and wife."

"GET IN!" Harry cries, doing a little victory dance as Meghan (so I'm informed) makes the 'call me' sign at Oprah Winfrey.

19th May, 2018 - 10:40pm

"For the last time, woman," the Duke of Edinburgh yells at Her Majesty, "I was not making eyes at that prostitute!"

"That's my mother!" the Duchess of Cambridge screams, breaking down in tears as Wills takes her in his arms. I knew it would be a mistake having a second reception: the booze and the summer heat's really starting to take its toll.

"How dare you talk about my wife like that!" Michael Middleton shouts, jabbing a finger in Prince Philip's direction.

"What's it to you, you bloody peasant?" Philip retorts. "You're only here 'cos me good-for-nothing grandson got your daughter up the junction."

"I say, Gramps," Harry burps, raising his head from a champagne bucket, "That's totally uncool, yah?"

"You keep out of this, you illegitimate little shitehawk," Philip snaps. "You're just like your bloody mother, chasing after that Paki shopkeeper's son..."

I decide to step outside for a much-needed cigarette. I pass Her Majesty, sat blubbing on one of the concrete toadstools, and make my way towards the rock pool at the foot of the garden. I sit down on an ornamental bench and go to light up a Marlboro Gold when the flint on my lighter jams.

"Fuck it," I mutter, and chuck the damn thing into the pond.

"I thought you'd given up?" a voice suddenly says behind me. I turn to see Meghan, the moonlight making her diamond tiara twinkle like a crown of stars.

"Nah, you know me," I shrug. "No self-control."

"Really-?" she smiles, sitting down next to me. She holds out a zipper lighter.

"Well, almost none," I reply. I lean towards the flame and take a long drag before expelling a thick, satisfying column of smoke.

"Thank you for paying for all this," Meghan says. "It's been a wonderful day."

"Oh, it was nothing, really: Vladimir gave me the money. By the way, he says if you're ever in Moscow feel free to drop by."

We stare at the rock pool for a moment, silent and still in our own bubble universe.

"Do you think it could've worked out?" Meghan says softly. "Between us, I mean."

"Never really thought about it," I lie, taking another drag. "There's no point wondering what could've been; you've got to live in the here and now. And all I know is there's a guy back there probably honking his guts up who really needs you."

She nods, wiping a tear from her eye.

"I won't forget you," she says suddenly, leaning over to kiss my cheek before walking slowly back to Frogmere House. I sigh, breath quick from the tightness in my throat, and dry my eyes. I throw my cigarette into the water, watching it bob and drift before it disappears amongst a tangle reeds.

"Bloody royals," I mumble. I stand up, put on my jacket and set off to find the nearest taxi rank, humming "Someone To Watch Over Me" as a soft breeze gently licks away the summer heat.

UK-Russia Crisis Special

Technically speaking, the contents of this post are classified under the terms of the Official Secrets Act. However, in the interests of world peace I hereby present my first-hand account of key events in the Sergei and Yulia Skripal case as they actually unfolded and continue to unfold. Just make sure you delete your internet history after reading this, okay?

[Note: You'll notice the name of my, for want of a less euphemistic expression, 'significant other' has been removed from these pages. This is not an act of censorship, but simply that divulging her identity isn't in the public interest. Besides, if the relationship goes tits-up at least I've still got the option of an exclusive tabloid deal.]

4th March, 2018

It's 10:30pm and I've been called to an emergency Cabinet meeting. I don't need this - especially when [Grammy Award-winning singer]'s waiting for me in bed with a KFC family fun bucket, a bottle of Jack and a battery-powered plastic toy in the shape of what can only be described as a disco stick.

"Shall we get started?" Theresa May says, shuffling a series of pages back into a folder adorned with a crayon drawing of a rainbow and the words 'Brexit: An Idiot's Guide' inscribed in red biro. Foreign secretary Boris Johnson raises his hand and asks if there'll be nibbles, whereupon defence minister Gavin Williamson smacks the back of his head with a ruler.

"Gentlemen," May says, deliberately avoiding eye contact with home secretary Amber Rudd, "As some of you may have already heard, this afternoon, a former Russian double-agent, now a naturalised citizen of this country, has been hospitalised in what we suspect is a chemical attack..."

Silence descends upon the room as the assembled ministers exchange grave looks. As the enormity of the situation sinks in, one of them finally gathers his nerve and addresses his fellow statesmen.

"What about pizza?" Boris says. Williamson rolls his eyes and smacks him again.

"But this is terrible, PM!" treasury minister Philip Hammond exclaims. "Who's responsible?"

"Russia, you tosser!" Williamson shouts. "Who do you think: Paraguay?"

"So what's the situation so far?" Rudd asks earnestly. May looks around the room, pretending not to hear her. After an impolite nudge from Williamson, Boris repeats the question.

"Well," May says, "the former intelligence agent and his Muscovite daughter are currently unconscious. What's more, the policeman on the scene has also been admitted to hospital in a critical condition."

"Those evil, slitty-eyed bastards!" Boris barks.

"Awful business though it is," May says, waving her hand dismissively, "I think we can use this to our advantage. Just think, gentlemen: a sleepy English village in the heart of the home counties, a foreign attack on British soil... It's the stuff that Brexit's made of!"

"Of course!" Rudd replies, snapping her fingers. "When the great unhosed hears about this they'll feel better about leaving the EU! And if we take on Russia, it'll earn us no end of kudos from the European community..."

"Well, duh!" May says under her breath.

"It couldn't have worked out better if we'd planned it ourselves!" Hammond chuckles. The room falls silent again, save for a polite cough from May.

"Anyway!" Williamson says suddenly, clapping his hands and rubbing them with glee, "This is our chance to show those namby-pambies in Brussels what the old British Bulldog spirit is all about! Eh, fellas?"

Boris leads the room in a boisterous sing-along of "We Won Two World Wars and One World Cup". Even May joins in, slapping her thighs in time to the rhythm.

"One World War, actually," education minister Damian Hinds says, looking up from his copy of Nuts. "Ivan won the second lot."

"Yes, but Johnny Sixpack doesn't know that!" Boris smirks before fixing Hinds with a startled look. "Does he-?"

"Well, you won't find it in a GCSE textbook," Hinds replies.

"But isn't this all just a tad kick, bollocks, scramble?" I ask. "I mean, we don't have any proof Moscow ordered this."

"Oi!" Williamson snarls, jabbing a finger at me. "If you don't like it, shut up and go and live in Russia!"

As the Cabinet cheer and stamp their feet, May leans over to Williamson and pats his head.

"Very good, Gavin. Just needs a teeny bit of work, though..."

15th March, 2018

"Twenty-three!" Putin growls, slamming a basketball through the hoop opposite his desk. "Twenty-three of theirs for twenty-three of ours. I'll teach those motherfuckers to give me an ultimatum... I'm an A-1 mushroom cloud motherfucker, motherfucker!"

I tell him that by flouting the ten day disclosure time set down by the Chemical Weapons Convention, ethically the UK doesn't have a leg to stand on. It does little to soothe his temper.

"I couldn't give a sweet motherfuck if those assholes sent the Queen over here in a pair of boxing gloves and a flak jacket: how dare they treat a nuclear power like this?!"

"That kind of talk really isn't helping," I tell him. He stares at me for a moment, the intensity in his eyes making me bow my head.

"Novichok..." he mutters bitterly. "That bastard Brezhnev and his bastard defence spending! God rest his soul."

"But didn't Yeltsin [spits] close down the Soviet chemical research facilities back in '92?" defence minister Dmitry Rogozin asks.

"Kinda..." Putin says sheepishly. "But we scrapped our chemical weapons last year, didn't we?"

"In accordance with stipulations from the OPCW," foreign affairs minister Sergey Lavrov replies. "But you try telling that to... Oh, what's his name? That infant in a man's suit..."

"Johnson," I answer. They start sniggering.

"Can you imagine him trying to negotiate with Chernenko?" Putin snorts. "There wouldn't have been a Britain left to back out of Europe! Or a Europe, come to that."

"Any word on whether a consul can visit the hospital yet?" Rogozin asks.

"No," Lavrov shrugs. "Yulia's still out of bounds."

"It's outrageous!" Putin booms. "This is a Soviet citizen-"

"Russian citizen," Rogozin corrects him.

"A Russian citizen," Putin continues, "and they're treating her like a pawn in a chess game. May acts like she's the fucking Madonna, but she's just a hard-faced bitch in Thatcher's hand-me-downs."

"Did you see the way they greeted her in Salisbury?" Lavrov says. "It was like the second coming of Saint Xenia."

"More like Xena, Warrior Princess," Putin quips. They start sniggering again. Putin leans back in his chair, shaking his head incredulously. "Do they really think I'm dumb enough to order something like this with the election on the way and all eyes on the World Cup?" he sighs. "She's really dropped the ball on this one."

I start laughing. Rogozin and Lavrov exchange wary glances as Putin looks up at me.

"Something funny, friend?"

"She's dropped the ball!" I giggle before the awkwardness sets in. "I just thought that was funny, is all..."

"What, I say I didn't order it and you find that funny?" Putin asks, eyes narrowing with a sinister quizzicality.

"No, it's like what you said about Xena... You're just a funny guy, Vladimir!"

"Funny how-?" he demands, rising from his chair. "Like a clown?! What the fuck is so funny about me??"

"It was..." I croak, the words lodged in my throat. "I mean - I didn't mean..."

He suddenly bursts into a huge belly laugh, patting my cheeks before scooping me up in a bear hug. Rogozin and Lavrov clutch their stomachs, guffawing at the look on my face.

"I'm just breaking your balls, Rich!" Putin chortles. "Anyway, enough about this bullshit: tell me about [Grammy Award-winning singer]... Is it true what she says about how when it's not rough it isn't fun?"

26th March, 2018

I wake up to the news that the US has expelled sixty Russian diplomats and the consulate in Seattle has been closed. I call Trump on the Oval Office direct line.

[Dialling tone, then-]

"Trump residence."

"Hi Don, it's Richard."

"Huh?"

"Richard English."

"[Pause] Hey, Dicky boy! How's it working out with [Grammy Award-winning singer]? You poke her face yet?"

"..Yeah, it's going pretty well, thanks. She-"

[I sneeze]

"You got a cold? You know, for a second when you called me there I thought you were Rocket Man! That little douchebag called me this morning at 4am - 4am! - and asked me to bring six cases of Johnnie Walker Black to the summit! I said, 'What do you think I am, fucking room service?!"

[Laughter]

"Smooth, Don!"

"Isn't it, though? 'What do you think I am, fucking room service?!'"

[More Laughter]

"So anyway, Don, I'm calling because-"

"[Sniggers] Fucking room service!"

"Uh-huh."

"You know why that's funny, don't you, Dicky Boy?"

"'Cos you run a hotel chain-?"

"[Pause] What do you want, asshole?"

"Well, it's a delicate subject, Don, but it's about these Russian diplomats..."

"Shit... Listen - that was a favor, okay? Mustard Tits Teri called me up, said she had this situation going on... Well, you know how she talks: it's like a tarantula crawled up her pussy. Anyway, 'Teri,' I said, 'anything to help our greatest ally... Besides, it'll get those FBI cocksuckers off my back for a while!' I mean, Jeez, Dicky Boy - you'd think no one had rigged an election before."

"But this tit-for-tat approach... The UK kicks out twenty-three, Russia kicks out twenty-three; you've kicked out sixty, now they're probably going to kick out sixty... Aren't we in danger of reigniting a cold conflict here?"

"[Pause] Not if I get a second term, baby. I've got it all planned out, believe me! The Don doesn't just make it up as he goes along: there are bright days ahead, kiddo!"

"I've got to ask, Don: do you really think Russia's behind this? May says she's sharing intelligence with Britain's allies, but she hasn't presented any conclusive facts yet."

"Facts-? [Blows raspberry] Facts don't mean anything!" It's like all this shinola about the Russian gas pipeline... People don't wanna hear about that: they wanna know about The Don's plan!"

"'Shinola'-?"

"It ain't shinola making America great again."

"No, I meant the Russian pipeline."

"And that's part of the plan, Dicky Boy! Let's say America has a milkshake and Russia has a milkshake - but these milkshakes aren't milkshakes, they're gas reserves. Now let's say Europe has a straw that reaches across the sea from... well, wherever the hell you are... to here, okay? So now you're drinking our gas. But let's say you can't afford to pay premium rates for our milkshake and you want something more competitive. So you extend that straw the other way and start drinking Russian gas instead. Where does that leave America? I'll tell you where: sitting on a big milkshake no one wants while those bear hugging assholes get fat on gas! So we find a way to isolate Russia from the rest of Europe and let them drink our milkshake... You get me? [A member of White House staff addresses Trump] What? [Inaudible conversation, then-] Sorry, Dicky Boy - it's time for my two o'clock. Catch you on the flip flop, okay? Just don't forget what I told you: people don't care about facts, they wanna see results! [To White House staff member] Let me tell you something, hot stuff: if Obama's a panatela, I'm a fucking Havana, sweetheart..."

[Phone clicks dead]

3rd April, 2018

Cameras snap and flash as Boris ascends the podium, ready to greet the hungry men and women of the press.

"Gabba gabba hey!" he begins, prompting a polite titter. "Porton Down... Yes! Marvellous organisation... Keeping us safe and all that; breeding chemicals to help fight against those who use chemicals against us... Leading us not into temptation, but delivering us from evil... The Evil Empire, as Reagan called it... Russia! Land of Rasputin, Stalin and... [thinks] the other one. Putin... Putin, yes! Autocrat... Murderer... Propagandist... Chemicals being developed, poisoning British citizens... Tests at Porton Down - marvellous organisation! - say they don't know where the chuckle gas was manufactured, but I stand by my position... Foreign secretary... Foreigners, yes! Coming over here, poisoning people... Not the one who came over here and got poisoned... Maybe she poisoned herself, who knows? I know: she didn't! [Pause] Any questions?"

A flurry of arms shoot into the air, fingers waggling in anticipation. Boris selects a stubble-faced man in jeans and a brown overcoat.

"Andrew Dawson, The Sun. Given what you've said about jumping to conclusions and misrepresenting the findings of an official government body, Putin is a mad bastard, isn't he?"

"111% mad!" Boris replies. "Spinal Tap crazy times a hundred... Next question."

"Rebecca Jones, Daily Mail. What's your favourite colour?"

"Blue... Red, white and blue! Johnny Poisonaspyovitch can't boast that, can he? Any more questions?"

I can't take any more. I leap onto the podium, grab the microphone and make myself heard.

"I've got a pretty fucking good one, actually. When Theresa May was home secretary she handed out 650 investor visas to Russian millionaires, many of whom invested capital in prime property - including former deputy prime minister Igor Shuvalov. Conservative backbencher Jacob Rees-Mogg's fund management company Somerset Capital's sixth biggest holding is Sberbank, which has been on international sanctions lists since the Ukrainian conflict in 2014. Just over a month ago, defence secretary Gavin Williamson accepted £30,000 from Russian banker Lubov Chernukhin to dine with his wife, and only last year you yourself accepted £161,000 from the same banker to play tennis. Two weeks ago May expelled twenty-three diplomats, saying, and I quote: 'We don't want these people - or their money - in our country'." So - in light of the obvious financial advantages the Conservative Party have enjoyed from its connections with Russia, which may have had some bearing on May blocking the public inquiry into the murder of Alexander Litvinenko for a full year until the high court intervened, global economic sanctions that already exist against Russia which would inevitably be stretched even further in the event of a diplomatic incident such as this, the eyes of the world already fixed on the Russian election and the World Cup, America's attempt to monopolise demand for gas reserves in the face of Russian competition, and the fact that a 60-something retired double-agent who's been living in relative anonymity as part of an internationally-agreed exchange for the last eight years poses no further threat to the security of his homeland - I put it to you, BoJo-"

I suddenly hear the sound of guns cocking behind me. Several guns. I look at Boris, whose face twists into a demented grin. My edgy, rapid breathing causes the microphone to echo and hum.

"I put it to you, BoJo... the England team have got a pretty good chance this year, haven't they?"

Boris raises his arm above my head and makes the 'V for Victory' sign as a Guardian journalist asks me if Lady Gaga's any good in bed.

Operation Neptune Spear

2nd May, 2011

A plume of smoke coils and drifts into the cool, dark night over Pakistan as our HU-60 spins out of control 50ft. above Bilal Town.

"We're hit!" the pilot shouts into the radio amidst a hiss of fire extinguishers. "Abort the mission! Repeat: ABORT THE MISSION!"

"Bullshit!" I yell, forcing my way into the cockpit. I wrestle the radio from the pilot's fear-drenched hands and address the squadron. "Cancel that last order, fellas - I'm going in myself."

"But it's suicide!" a young marine whimpers behind me. "You're gonna die! We're all gonna die!"

"Get a hold of yourself, soldier!" I command him, grabbing his lapel and slapping some sense into the little pipsqueak. "What's your name, son?"

"O'Neill, sir. Robert O'Neill... My friends call me Bobby."

"Listen, O'Neill," I reply. "This isn't about you or me: it's about justice. If we don't take down that son of a bitch right now, all the O'Neill's and the Robert's and the Bobby's in this world won't live to see tomorrow. You get that, soldier-?"

"Aye, sir!" he exclaims, clicking his heels together with renewed vigour.

"Good on you, son," I say, and slap him again. As the Black Hawk levels out above the compound at Abbottabad, the other Navy SEALs salute me as I strap on a parachute and leap out of the chopper towards my destiny. I free-fall for what seems like an eternity before crashing through the Waziristan Haveli skylight. I land on my feet amidst a shower of broken glass that handily despatches everyone else in the room save for my target.

"Osama," I purr, raising my .48 with a sardonic twinkle in my eye. "Hope you don't mind me dropping by..."

"So we meet again, English! I should've killed you when I had the chance."

"Well, I'm sorry if I gave you the run around..." I retort, dashing round the room as he exhausts the magazine in his 1979 American-issue AK-47. Catching the last bullet between my teeth as a show of defiance, I kick him in the balls and take aim at his forehead. His tongue suddenly shoots out of his mouth and squeezes itself around my gun hand, forcing me to drop the .48 and fall to my knees.

"Not tho fahtht..." he lisps, raising himself above me as he seizes hold of my throat. His tongue snaps back into his jaw, licking his lips with a malevolent glee. "Your Yankee Doodle friends should've known it would take more than a superman to defeat me, English! It would take... a god!"

"Then you're all Allah luck," I quip, and spit the bullet I caught into his right temple. He falls to the ground, still clutching my neck.

"The horror..." he murmurs, the light in his eyes starting to fade as his hand slackens. "The horror..."

I close his eyes, strike a match with my chin stubble and light a cigar. A sudden burst of static pierces the eerie calm as my radio crackles to life.

"White Lightning, this is Strongbow. Do you copy?"

"Copy that, Strongbow. This is White Lightning. Tell the President it's over. Tell him... democracy is safe once again."