Treeza’s sick note

‘These whingeing Bremainers,’ David Davis scoffed, putting his feet up on the prime minister’s desk, ‘seem to think my referendum was merely advisory. Our referendum, I mean. The cowards want to prevent the damage we’re causing.’

‘Advisory, shmadvisory, David,’ she barked. ‘What would the Daily Maul say if we tried to steer the country clear of the rocks now that the people have spoken? Full steam ahead!’

‘What gets my goat,’ Davis added, ‘is that those unpatriotic creeps are demanding we keep to what they claim was a promise about giving £350 million a week extra to the NHS when it was quite blatantly an over-the-top slogan to persuade the simple-minded. Put my mind at rest, Treez – you’re not thinking of backsliding, are you?’

‘I’ve announced today,’ she said, with a triumphant curl of her lips, ‘that the NHS isn’t getting a penny more. Let them make savings!’

‘But some of our followers actually believed that nonsense’ broke in Philip Hammond, who had been skulking in the shadows. ‘What the hell do I tell them?’

‘That they’re not going to get it,’ Davis chortled. ‘If private health care is good enough for me it’s good enough for them – and don’t forget that I won the referendum. We did, I mean.’

‘But I need a form of words,’ Hammond whined. ‘What the hell do I call that pledge we made?’

The prime minister waved his protest aside, a gleam in her eye.

‘No problem, Phil!’ she said. ‘Just tell them it was advisory.’

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