Dominic Cummings shuffled his way through the crowd of Tory activists before merging into the shadows to one side of the Mountbatten room in the Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre. This was how he liked it. To be both seen and unseen. This was his victory. Boris Johnson was just his amoral, frontman clown. He knew it and Boris knew it. Without Classic Dom, the prime minister would be a nobody.

Elsewhere, Dom’s Praetorian Guard prepared the room for the start of the impromptu 7am campaign celebration. “Can you move off the platform?” barked one minder. “You’re a health and safety risk.” There was no one within three feet of me. “I thought the whole point of Brexit was that we were going to deregulate this sort of thing,” I replied. The joke didn’t land well. It had been a long night.

When all the faithful, many of whom were still pissed having been on the lash ever since the exit poll was declared, had been herded into position, Dom clicked his fingers. The show could begin. Moments later Needy Matt Hancock, Sajid Javid and James Cleverly were brought out as human wall-paper, before Michael Gove was sent on as warm-up act. Dom, Mikey and Boris was quite the Vote Leave reunion. Only this time the acid trip had been rather more fun.

Gove tried his best to be statesmanlike as he addressed the nation. Tricky for someone whose insincerity is now second nature. He didn’t make it any easier by making vague promises to give more money to towns he clearly hadn’t heard of before yesterday. And insisting that the Tories were now a One Nation party when it had just kicked out its entire cohort of One Nation MPs immediately before the election was just taking the piss.

But Mikey saved the best till last. Boris was the right man to lead the country, he said. No one had ever admired Johnson more than him. He was not worthy to kiss his feet. In fact the only reason he had twice stood against him for the leadership of the Tory party was to show up just how useless he was in comparison to the magnificence of Boris. There is no bum into which Gove won’t thrust his nose.

Then it was Johnson’s turn. “What will we be able to do?” he asked. That question was rhetorical. Because the real answer was that he would now be able to do whatever the fuck he wanted. The World King was in business. Though the one problem with being able to do whatever you believe in, is it rather requires you to believe in something first. And Boris has never really believed in anything but himself. And only then as a series of bodily impulses catapulting him from one crisis to another.

He said he’d get Brexit done but he still hadn’t a clue how. Or why. And one of the problems of a landslide majority was that now there was no one left to blame. He would be responsible for whatever shitshow Brexit inevitably turned into. More people had voted for an anti-Brexit party than for a pro-Brexit one, so the country was just as divided as it had ever been. The idea of healing was a sick joke. Besides, he’d never thought for a minute that Brexit was a good idea anyway. It had just been a means to an end. To get him right here, right now.

So he’d better try to enjoy it. Though best not to look as if he was enjoying it too much. Now was the time for a show of humility. To keep it low key. To at least look as if he was grateful that so many people had voted for him when in his heart it just felt as if the natural world order of privileged entitlement had been observed.

Boris mumbled some thanks to Labour voters for overlooking his dishonesty, racism and homophobia and promised he would try to do rather better at repaying their trust than he had in any previous relationships. A fresh start and all that. Or maybe not. Dom gave him the eye and he swiftly wrapped things up. He had no idea what came next, but something would come to him. It always did. The trick was to stay one step ahead of exposure.

Back home in Islington, Jeremy Corbyn was equally bewildered at the way the night had turned out. More in sadness than in anger, the Labour leader tried to explain how the real victim of his party’s failure had been him. He was the misunderstood Messiah. A man out of time. Too good for this world. Just give him another 1,000 years and the country would come to realise the salvation that had been offered in his party’s manifesto. His one regret was that he had not been even more radical. Perhaps then the people might have seen the light and not been distracted by Brexit.

Corbyn sighed, willing his stigmata to bleed. It was time for him to move on. Though not quite yet. A period of reflection on the divine mysteries of his complete uselessness was required. Replacing someone as enlightened as him could not be rushed. Someone who would take the road less travelled of making the party unelectable for another 10 years. So why not give the Tories a free ride for several months while Labour tore itself to pieces? There was madness in his method.

As Johnson nipped off to see the Queen – he’d lied to her once, he could lie to her again – and prepared to make another largely untrue statement outside Downing Street, Cummings quietly congratulated himself. He was the disruptor in chief. The man who tore things down. And his crowning achievement was to install an impostor as prime minister. Classic Dom.

John Crace’s new book, Decline and Fail: Read in Case of Political Apocalypse, is published by Guardian Faber. To order a copy go to guardianbookshop.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £15, online orders only. Phone orders min. p&p of £1.99.