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Susanna and the bashing of Boris

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SUSANNA narrowed her eyes in fury.

‘So, what do you have to say to Elsie, Prime Minister? Poor Elsie who has to ride the buses all day because she can’t afford to heat her home. What have you got to say to her?’

Boris ran through the Rolodex of responses in his head. Frowny-faced bemusement? Hang-dog befuddlement? Who the blazes is Elsie anyway? Is she a friend of Lorraine’s? Is she one of my children? Gosh, I wish Susanna wasn’t wearing that dress. Makes it jolly hard to concentrate.

Susanna pursed her lips.

‘Well, Prime Minister? What have you got to say to Elsie?’

Think, think, think, Boris thought. Buses! Didn’t we do something about buses back in the day? Didn’t we stop them from being so bendy? No, no, no. That’s not it. I’ve got it! The Freedom Bus Pass. That was me – I think. Just make a little joke about that and then waffle on a bit. It works with Andrew Marr.

‘Well, it’s a jolly good thing that we introduced the Freedom Bus Pass then, eh?’ Boris replied with a gentle chuckle.

He knew straight away he had done something wrong.

Susanna’s cheeks turned from a delicate salmon to a dangerous merlot. Suddenly, she leapt up from her chair and grabbed Boris by the lapels, jerking him forwards and back like a demented puppet.

‘You heartless bastard!’ she screamed. ‘Is that all you have to say to Elsie? Elsie who’s 77 years old and a widow and who loves little children? What kind of a callous, inhuman, out-of-touch Prime Minister, are you? Show some empathy!’

Just to demonstrate the amount of empathy that would be deemed satisfactory, she gave him a good, hard smack around the chops.

Boris had the distinct feeling that the interview had taken a turn for the worse. He tried to take back control.

‘But we had to shut down the economy for two years!’ he argued. ‘I thought that was what we all agreed. Health not wealth, right? And we had to stop fracking and nuclear. Don’t you always tell us to save the planet?’

For Boris, it was definitely not turning out to be a Good Morning, Britain. And, frankly, it was getting even harder to concentrate now that Susanna was manhandling him like this.

‘I swear, I’ve never even met this Elsie person!’ he cried in desperation.

‘Neither have I!’ Susanna yelled, lifting him from his seat and planting her knee firmly in his nether region. ‘But I care, damn it!’

‘Doing . . . everything . . . we . . . can,’ Boris gasped through a fog of pain.

Susanna finally let him go, dropping him into his chair like a sack of sullied potatoes. She looked at him with a pouty mix of triumph and disdain. Slowly, she sat down, smoothed the wrinkles in her dress and allowed herself a small inward smile.

She felt magnificent. That’s right, she thought, I nailed it! I used an old lady’s hardship to humiliate the Prime Minister. I’ll be lauded by my peers for this. There will be awards, prizes, viral videos. After all, haven’t I just solved the entire cost-of-living crisis with a single interview?

‘So, Prime Minister,’ she said at last. ‘Have you anything else to add?’

Boris hung his head and stared dejectedly at the floor.

‘No, Susanna,’ he mumbled.

‘I didn’t think so.’

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Cameron Smith
Cameron Smith
Cameron Smith writes the satirical blog The New Peculiar and also for the satirical site, NewsThump.

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