No. 10 - The Comedy of Errors

Friday, 27^th March, 2020

Bozza’s got it! Parliament is abuzz with excitement worry…

(Feel free to print this off and act it out with your family)

Act 5, Scene 7: Number 10, Downing Street

(Outside the Prime Minister’s bedroom. Dominic Cummings is filing his nails whilst dictating a job advert into his phone)

Cummings: …must be familiar with spinning reality into complete and utter lies that a downtrodden public will swallow whole. You will be working with a cabinet of ministers who show more loyalty to their local supermarket but you will have the final say in hiring and firing. Be aware, though, that this job is a temporary contract, up to four years, which can be cut short with minimal notice. Work involves some evenings and weekends. Please note: We DO NOT accept BAME candidates or those with disabilities, including women. If you wish to apply, then start backslapping your usual government contacts, or, if you prefer, nominate myself for the position. Closing date: Tomorrow, 1pm.

(Enter, down the corridor, Jacob Rees-Mogg, dressed in a top hat, pinstriped suit and a monocle, and wheeling along behind him a grandfather clock)

Cummings: Well if it isn’t…what the fuck is that? (indicating the clock with his nail file)

Rees-Mogg: I couldn’t find my pocket watch. Am I…too late?

Cummings: No, he’s clinging on. Smells a bit, though. You’ll need a nosegay before you go in.

Rees-Mogg: Oh no, I left mine on my dresser. Would you have one by any chance?

Cummings: Yes, I always carry several.

Rees- Mogg: Oh golly, that’s fortunate.

Cummings: Don’t be a complete twat, Moggford! Of course I haven’t.

Rees-Mogg: Oh, I see. What a wheeze! May I...go in and see him?

Cummings: I’ll give you five minutes but anything you say in there will be recorded and may be used against you in evidence, alright?

Rees-Mogg: Yes.

Act 5, Scene 8: Inside the Prime Minister’s bedroom

(Rees-Mogg enters a rather gloomy room where the curtains are drawn, wheeling his grandfather clock in behind him. The Prime Minister is in bed, propped up on several pillows)

Rees-Mogg: (whispering) Boris, old chum. It’s me, Jacob. Can you hear me?

Boris Johnson: (rather faintly, a rattle in each breath) I knew you’d come, my dear.

Rees-Mogg: I came as soon as I heard. Nothing, not even Cummings, could stop me. Have you had many others visit you?

Johnson: Not really. Just you and Dominic. And Cummings just shoves his head in now and again, muttering ‘Hurry up, you blond blimp.’

Rees-Mogg: Do you have anything you want me to do? You know, after…

Johnson: Just find my children for me and tell them I thought of them now and again. Oh, and I think now is the time to spend that extra £350 million a week on the NHS.

Rees-Mogg: Jeepers, Boris. Don’t you remember: it was all a giant fib!

Johnson: What? I don’t have any children?! Whoopee, I’m free!

Rees-Mogg: No, you’ve got loads. It’s the money, Boris, there isn’t any money.

Johnson: Oh dear. How will I be remembered, do you think, Jacob? Was I liked?

Rees-Mogg: Oh yes, Boris. I liked you very much. Too much, at times.

Johnson: Oh Jacob, I see a light… Kiss me, Moggers! One last time...

(Rees-Mogg bends down and plants a kiss on the Prime Minister’s proud erection where it tents the duvet)

Rees-Mogg: We’ll always have Brexit, Boris.

Johnson: Yes, we’ll always have Brexit...

 (He gasps, and dies. Very slowly, his erection subsides and the duvet tent collapses for the last time. Rees-Mogg removes his monocle to wipe away a single tear on his monogrammed handkerchief, then stands, salutes his fallen comrade, turns on his heel and walks into the grandfather clock which strikes the hour, bonging in imitation of Big Ben)

(Enter Cummings)

Cummings: Has he gone?

Rees-Mogg: I believe he has. Goodbye, captain my captain.

Cummings: Are you sure? Have you poked him?

Rees-Mogg: Yes, but that was a private matter. And Eton condones that sort of thing, I’ll have you know. Our love was classical Greece, two Ionic columns-

Cummings: For the love of fuck, shut up, Moggford! Now, here’s how we leak this to the press. I’ve thought it through and we’re going 1066 on all this, except this time, the deathbed-nominated-successor, or D-M-S, will ascend to the top job. We were both here, right, when he spoke his last? With his final sentient breath, he begged, begged, Jacob, that word is very important, begged me to take the Prime Ministership. Are you writing this down?

Rees-Mogg: I left my quill in my carriage.

Cummings: Then here (Cuts a long gash in his own arm which starts bleeding profusely: a thick, black, steaming blood), use this and your bony finger. Scrawl it on the wall. ‘It is with great sadness that we announce the death of our Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, blah blah blah. Much missed. Architect of our gentle rupture with Europe. A father of some varied offspring and the patriarch of our great family of Conservative members of parliament.’

That should do it. Now, check his pyjama pockets: I want the keys to the front door. It’s mine, all mine, Moggford. I am the Thomas Cromwell of the new millennium-

Rees-Mogg: Oh, give it a miss, Dominic.

(Exeunt)
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Latest data for the UK (as of 11pm):

Infected: 14, 453

Deaths: 759

Celebrity Deaths: 0 (But now it’s hit the centre of government… Although calling Boris or any of his lackeys ‘celebrities’ is stretching the term to its limit)

People I know who are infected: 1 (Sol’s friend who, thankfully, is over the fever and will be okay)

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Song of the Day: 'Ghost Town' - The Specials