This was rapidly turning into the holiday from hell for the Queen at Balmoral. It had been bad enough having to deal with the fallout from Prince Andrew’s friendship with Jeffrey Epstein – why on earth couldn’t he have settled down with an older woman like Charles? – but then had come the early morning phone call from No 10 saying that the pompous fool Jacob Rees-Mogg was on his way to Scotland to get her to sign off the prorogation of parliament.

After that, the shit really had hit the fan. First Jeremy Corbyn had started pestering her for a cup of tea and a chat and then Jo Swinson and Anna Soubry had made exactly the same demands. What the hell did they expect her to do? Stockpile a whole load of Scottish shortbread?

At this rate it wouldn’t be long before Rory Stewart turned up on the doorstep also wanting a a quiet word. Still there was always the chance he might bring some drugs he’d bought off the addicts he’d been meeting in Sunderland. Right now, unconsciousness was the only thing that really appealed. God, she hated the current madhouse in parliament.

Back in Westminster, Boris Johnson was rather pleased with the way the day was panning out. He had expected some pushback from his cabinet when he’d informed them he was planning to do the one thing he’d said he wasn’t attracted to, but most just said they had always known he was untrustworthy and so had been half expecting it.

Sajid Javid had been a bit miffed to have his big spending review speech cancelled, but Matt Hancock had just rolled over and said he’d never been that serious about his opposition to prorogation and that those who had died on D-day for democracy had got what they deserved. An insult was all they were now good for. Dear, dear Matt. So brave.

The only person to have been a little squeamish had been Amber Rudd, who had suggested the Conservatives would be screaming blue murder if Labour had tried to pull a similar stunt. But she’d quickly been palmed off with a quick reminder that she only had a tiny majority in Hastings and he could fix it for her to lose her seat at the coming election. Besides, it was a bit late in the day for Amber to suddenly remember she had principles.

Selling the prorogation on a news clip to Sky had also been a piece of piss. He’d spent a lifetime lying to his family and employers, so lying to the whole country now came as second nature. Rather it came so easily, he was now no longer able to properly differentiate between reality and lies. Having an extreme personality disorder had its uses. At times like these, what the country really needed was a delusional narcissist.

Here was the deal. It was a total coincidence that he was shutting down parliament for five weeks and MPs would have next to no time to block a no-deal Brexit. They’d get a few hours. How much more time did they need? In any case, nothing had been further from his mind than Brexit. All he wanted was time to put together a Queen’s speech, in which he could lay out his plans for schools and the NHS in the hope of winning an election before anyone worked out that he didn’t have the money to fund them.

The reaction to the prorogation had been everything Johnson had hoped. The remainers had gone berserk crying “coup”, “constitutional outrage” and “fascist dictatorship”. If only he could now get the trains to run on time he’d be living the dream. Julius Caesar would have killed for headlines like these. Come to think of it, he had been killed for headlines like these. Ah well. He’d take his chances. In time, one or two people might even thank him.

All over Tuscany remain MPs had been choking on their prosecco. John Bercow had completely lost his rag on the tennis court. Michael Heseltine had been dragged from his lilo in Montenegro. Various Labour MPs were threatening to barricade themselves inside parliament. Well, let them. No one would miss them. Lloyd Russell-Moyle had even called for a general strike. Hell, why not a civil war? The one small downside had been the resignation of Ruth Davidson. But there again, he’d never much liked the Scots and it was time someone told them to sod off.

Come early evening, Johnson settled down to share some Kool-Aid with Dominic Cummings. “So, genius,” he had asked. “What happens now?”

“Fucked if I know,” Cummings shrugged. “We might get some kind of Theresa May deal or we might get a no deal. We might win an election and we might not. My job is just to cause as much trouble as possible and stay one step ahead of the opposition. Don’t come to me looking for answers.”

Boris settled down to watch Little Britain repeats on YouTube. This was the country he was proud to lead. A country where most people had an inside toilet. A country where dementia patients didn’t even know they were dying in squalor. A country where democracy was too precious to be wasted on parliament. A country where the pound was almost at parity with the euro and the dollar. A country that was crying out for a Churchill. And had been landed instead with a total Johnson.