IT WAS Christmas Day at the Sunaks’
Their Yorkshire mansion was full of good cheer
They were California dreamin’
They’d be Stateside in less than a year.
When the PM unwrapped his presents
His delight could not be surpassed
He got a wallet to keep his Green Card in
And Bermuda shorts styled at half-mast.
Akshata was gifted a riveting book
A best-selling novel? Not quite.
It was a guide to American tax law
And getting non-dom status right.
Said Sunak: ‘When we lose the election
We’ll head to Heathrow straight away
By the time Starmer’s droning outside No 10
We’ll be flying first-class to LA.
‘I’ll be rather sad to leave Yorkshire
With its snow and its wind and its rain
I know Santa Monica could never compare
But we’ll just have to face up to the pain.
‘I never quite mastered Tyke sayings
But when locals uttered these phrases:
‘Rishi, tha’s a reet wazzock’,
I think they were singing my praises.
‘Oh look, a Christmas card from Suella!
A surprise, when you think that I sacked her.
At this joyful season of peace and goodwill
Could it be that regrets have now racked her?
‘Her message is the words of a carol,
But I’m afraid her tone is quite scorning
It says: “I saw 300 migrant boats come sailing by
On Christmas Day in the morning.”
‘Akshata, darling, why look so glum
When our plans are nearing perfection?’
Said Akshata: ‘A dread thought just crossed my mind:
What if you win the election?’
Said Sunak: ‘That’s not going to happen
The Conservatives are a force that’s long spent
We’ll be like dinosaurs hit by an asteroid,
A mass extinction event.
‘From Covid to climate to migrants
To war memorials with yobs on
We’ve brought 13 years of disaster,
An omnishambles with knobs on.
‘So to our Pacific penthouse we’ll repair
I’ll write my memoirs, you’ll go shopping
While Starmer makes Britain even worse
With no chance of any boats stopping.’
It was Christmas Day at the Starmers’
And Sir Keir was gripped by stark fear
Because he knew that barring a bombshell
He’d be Downing Street-bound the next year.
Family and friends themed his presents
On the prospect of him taking power
But as he opened each of their gifts
His response was a groan and a glower.
On waking he found to his horror
In a stocking at the end of his bed
A cloth cap, muffler and whippet
To help boost his working-class cred.
He got a Jeremy Corbyn voodoo doll
With a thousand pins to stick in
And a Public Speaking for Dummies book
To improve his poor politickin’.
There was a year’s supply of strong hairspray
To keep his quiff looking twee
And a handsome hassock, leather-bound
For when he’d next be taking the knee.
As he grumbled, Lady Starmer said:
‘Why are you being a miserable git?’
He told her: ‘I’m scared of becoming PM,
To use old Thatcher’s word, I’m frit.
‘I’m worried about leftie Rayner
I know I’ll have to appease her
But what if she stabs me in the back?
I mean, it happened to Julius Caesar.
‘What if I freeze at PMQs
And look like a stupid poltroon
What if the clever ripostes I’ve rehearsed
Go down like a lead balloon?’
In desperation he phoned Tony Blair
And told him of his plight
‘Don’t worry, Keir,’ came the smooth reply
‘It all will turn out right.
‘It makes no difference who’s PM
Or to what politics he clings
You’ll be nothing but a puppet
While others pull your strings.
‘In Downing Street follow one rule
And you’ll meet all the job’s demands:
Just look like it’s you who’s running things
And do as Klaus Schwab commands.’