Once upon a time, in Britain’s bleak midwinter, there was a miserly old man called Sir Keir Scrooge, who held the highest political position in the land: that of Prime Minister.
Sir Keir, formerly a renowned lawyer, knighted for his services to the establishment, had moved into his new abode on Downing Street not long ago. But already he was despised by the country’s ordinary folk for his bitterness, cruelty, and parsimonious ways.
Ms Reeves’ bad news
Scrooge was a well-dressed gentleman (some questioned where and how he obtained such smart suits and gleaming glasses). By contrast, the fabric of society around him was fraying and wearing thin, with clear holes visible and widening.
His closest associate – and next-door neighbour – was an equally-wicked woman called Ms Reeves. In respectable circles she was referred to as ‘the Chancellor’. But to the public, she was known as ‘Ratchety Rachel’.
One day Keir was sitting in his drab office, which was littered with focus group memos and bland speech notes – not to mention empty wine bottles from a former occupant.
Suddenly, Ms Reeves walked in, looking startled. “What is it Rachel?” Scrooge gruffly asked, without looking up from the papers on his desk. “Can’t you see I’m busy working on my latest hollow policy proposal?”
“Sorry, Sir,” the Chancellor apologised. “But I’ve been poring over the latest financial figures, and things aren’t looking good.”
“Go on,” Keir snapped. “What’s the matter?”
“Well,” his stingy partner replied, “it seems like the previous directors of UK Ltd. have left us an utter mess.”
“The long and the short of it is that we’ve going to have to make some tough decisions before the New Year if we want to stay afloat,” Ms Reeves continued. “Those in the Port Talbot plant have all got to go. And we’re going to have to hold down the wages of our employees in healthcare, or make them work longer hours, or both.”
“We could try to fudge the numbers,” the Chancellor said. “But between you and me, it’s going to be a pretty dire few years ahead. Sooner or later, we’re going to have to cut back on our spending. After all, we can’t alarm the investors.”
Keir nodded in agreement.
Pleas and petitions
Scrooge and his Chancellor therefore began tightening the purse strings.
Tiny Tim’s parents – a hardworking clerk called Bob and his wife, a poorly-paid (but highly applauded) nurse – would see their benefits cut, since they had two other children. And subsidies to the elderly, to help them heat their homes, were to be abolished.
Upon hearing this news, two of Keir’s junior colleagues, a pair of more naive, sympathetic gentlemen called John and Richard, rushed to Scrooge’s office.
“Are you sure we can’t afford such welfare?” they mildly protested. “Perhaps we could ask the rich to part ways with their wealth?”
“Bah, socialism!” Keir grumbled, as he threw a crumpled-up leaflet from a bygone group called ‘Momentum’ at them. “What has it ever done except scare the shareholders?”
John and Richard appealed once more to Scrooge’s emotions, only to find that he had none.
“Please, Sir,” they begged. “Can we not offer the children and pensioners more?”
“More!” Scrooge roared in reply. “These scroungers are a blight on society! They should be grateful for what they’re already getting. Our benefits bill is bulging enough as it is!”
Angered by their pesky pleas and petitions, Sir Keir dismissed these do-gooders from his presence, had them thrown out of the building, and told them never to return.
“Charity never helped anybody,” he muttered to himself, as he sat alone. “We need to get Britain working.”
Jeremy’s prophecy
That night, as Keir prepared for a dreamless sleep in his sparsely furnished flat, a strange chill crept into the room.
With a flash and a puff of smoke, the spectral figure of Corbyn Marley – once known as ‘Jeremy’ to his friends – appeared, hovering in the air beside the bed.
Marley moved slowly towards Scrooge, weighed down by metal shackles. His grey beard, covered in what looked like homemade jam, glowed faintly in the moonlight, which beamed through the tawdry curtains.
“Keir,” Corbyn intoned solemnly, “you have lost your way.”
“In your youth you called yourself a Marxist,” the phantom began. “But now you hobnob with hedge-fund managers and rub shoulders with the well-heeled!”
“You should be out campaigning for peace and justice, like I did,” Jeremy implored his former comrade. “We have nothing to lose but our chains!”
“Tonight,” Marley divined, “you will be visited by three spirits, who will show you the error of your ways.”
“Not more Momentum nonsense,” Keir sighed, pulling the duvet over his head. “Fine, send them in. Just keep it quick – I’ve got a centrist think-tank breakfast at eight. And no more jabbering about chains!”
The Ghost of Politics Past
At the stroke of midnight, Scrooge was awakened by a booming voice. There, wobbling slightly in a rumpled suit, stood the Ghost of Politics Past: Boris Johnson.
“Wot ho, old chap!” Boris bellowed. “I’m here to take you on a jolly jaunt through history!”
Before Keir could protest, Boris grabbed him by the arm, and they were hurtling through time.
They landed in 1978, during the Winter of Discontent, in a smoky union hall where workers were discussing how to keep up with soaring prices whilst combating unemployment.
Keir watched as a young activist – holding a newspaper called Militant – delivered a rousing speech, calling on the trade union leaders to mobilise workers and youth in a mass campaign to nationalise the top 100 monopolies.
“You see, Keir,” Boris said, pulling a half-eaten pie from his pocket, “back then, there were at least some on the left who had spirit!”
“They were bold! Totally wrong, of course, but daring!” the ruffled, roguish wraith proclaimed. “None of this ‘safe pair of hands’ malarkey you’re so keen on.”
Scrooge squirmed. “Yes, but wasn’t all this a bit much? I mean, fighting unions?! Nationalised industries?! Won’t someone think of the bosses and bankers!”
“Fuck business,” Boris replied, rolling his eyes. “Honestly, mate, even I had more vim and verve when I was ‘getting Brexit done’.”
“But take note,” Johnson advised, as he dissipated into the ether. “It was thanks to these picket-loving fellows that your predecessor – a certain Mr James Callaghan – got booted out. You don’t want to end up like him!”
The Ghost of Politics Present
No sooner had Boris disappeared than Scrooge found himself face-to-face with the Ghost of Politics Present: Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu.
“Keir,” Netanyahu said, his expression stern, his voice cold and measured, “I am here to show you what your unwavering support for my regime means.”
With a wave of his hand, the two were transported to Gaza. The scene was stark and harrowing: rubble where homes once stood; children picking through debris; and a dark sky filled with the echoes of distant explosions.
Scrooge watched as aid workers and doctors struggled to care for the wounded. The sight of a mother cradling her injured baby made him look away, ashamed.
“This…this is terrible,” he exclaimed.
Sir Keir soon regained his composure, combed back his coiffed hair, and corrected himself.
“But you and your country have a right to defend yourselves, of course,” he bleated, reassuring his shadowy, blood-splattered companion.
As the Zionist ghost faded away, Scrooge was left standing amidst the devastation, haunted by the sight that confronted him.
“The things we do to uphold the rules-based order,” he thought out loud, comforting himself in the midst of this nightmare.
The Ghost of Politics Yet to Come
The room plunged into darkness once again, and a looming apparition appeared by Keir’s side, glimmering with an orangey hue: Donald Trump, the Ghost of Politics Yet to Come.
“Keir, buddy!” Trump boomed, his arms gesticulating wildly. “THE FUTURE! It’s a great future – well, great for me; not so much for you. Some people are saying it’s the worst future anyone’s ever seen. And I know futures, BELIEVE ME!”
Before Keir could respond, Trump snapped his fingers. Instantly, they were standing in Westminster. It looked familiar to Scrooge, but at the same time different.
The Houses of Parliament were now plastered with giant neon advertisements. Big Ben loves Big Oil, Big Tech, and Big Pharma! … JP Morgan Chase – proud sponsors of British politics … King William and PM Farage welcome President Vance and Veep Musk for the UK leg of their world tour …
Then Keir turned to see himself – older, greyer, and somehow even blander – delivering a robotic speech to an almost-empty Parliament chamber. Only now he was on the opposition benches, flanked by his former rivals Rishi Sunak and Jeremy Hunt, as leader of the Moderate Party.
“This is where you and your country are heading, Keir,” Trump said, waving his small hands around. “You won the last election – congratulations! People said, ‘Keir, he’s so boring, but at least he’s not one of those Tory guys.’ But guess what? You had no solutions. ZERO. NADA. So now, look at this chaos!”
“What…what happened to the NHS?” Sir Scrooge whispered, noticing dilapidated hospitals in this dystopian vision, now branded as Virgin Care Premium Centres.
Trump grinned. “Oh, you privatised that faster than I signed executive orders. Big donors loved it! And you know what’s even better? You replaced free school meals with Uber Eats vouchers. GENIUS. Everyone said: ‘This guy Keir, he’s a real problem-solver.’”
“Voters didn’t like it so much though,” Trump added.
“Is this my fate?!” Keir cried. “To become a political husk, hollowed out by betrayals and broken promises? Can’t I do anything to change my destiny?”
“Sure, you can change it,” the brash American spectre replied. “But will you?”
“I know a loser when I see one,” the Donald continued. “And listen, if you keep doing this wishy-washy centrist thing, this Blairite tribute act, this champion of the establishment crap, LET ME TELL YOU, you’ll be forgotten faster than Lettuce Liz.”
And with that, the 45th and 47th President of the United States of America vanished into thin air.
A Christmas revolution
Awakening in a cold sweat, Keir resolved to change his ways.
“Boris, Bibi, and Donald are right!” he declared to himself. “I needed to be bolder! More decisive!”
And so he rushed into the streets, still dressed in his pyjamas and nightcap, to tell the rest of Whitehall his plan.
“Enough of this ‘pro-worker’ stuff,” he shouted to the politicians, lobbyists, and journalists he stumbled into. “I’m going to be even more right wing – and openly so! I’m going to stop the boats, attack the unions, and implement the cuts that my chums in the City demand!”
Returning home, proud of his epiphany and newly-found confidence, however, Scrooge found his path blocked by a throng of placard-wielding workers and young people, who were pushing back a phalanx of baton-armed police officers.
Keir tried to barge past these unwashed masses, in order to enter his official lodgings. But instead, he found himself carried off by the crowd, whilst another section of protestors kicked down the door to Number 10 and surged inside.
And so, like the pandemic parties held by the Ghost of Politics Past, the PM’s residence was once again host to some festive celebrations. Only this Christmas, it was the working class raising a toast – to the beginning of the British revolution.
