Starmer is sinking, borrow the Bismarck!

The British Prime Minister awoke before dawn, this morning, April 21, 2026, sensing a strange presence nearby. He turned on the bedside light. No, nothing there. Yet a strange icy chill nonetheless settled around his heart. He closed his eyes, hoping to get a little more sleep before another day from hell began, with the return of the never-ending torment from that wretched Mandelson fellow….

At that moment, a cold blast of Arctic air enfolded him. Dear God, was there no escape from this unspeakable Mandelso…

“What is going on?” purred a frosty voice. “What are you doing to my country?”

“Your country? Your country? I am its elected prime minister, with the largest Labour majority in history. Who the devil are you?”

A frozen silence filled the bedroom, through which a voice echoed like a sonar signal bouncing off an arctic ice-sheet.

“Who am I? Who am I? Merely the mother of your King, and today is my one hundredth birthday.”

Starmer sat bolt-upright in bed, his eyes wide with horror. Was Queen Elizabeth’s ghost now to be added to his many woes? Ghost or not, he respectfully snatched the knitted nightcap from his head.

“Your birthday, Your Majesty? Your birthday? Forgive me. I had forgotten.”

He sensed razor-sharp diamonds in his marrow painfully scouring the inside of his bones. How could he escape this? He knew he could not.

“Fifteen British prime ministers have served me. Fifteen.Over one hundred and fifty prime ministers in the commonwealth have advised me. I have met every US President since Roosevelt, every French President since De Gaulle – a pompous, vainglorious fool, but nonetheless a man of substance – and more German chancellors than there are days in a week. But by a wide margin, you are the most contemptible, most abject, most vapid, most incompetent, most trivial yet most egocentric of them all.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t, you dunderhead, you cretin, you arrogant toad. Any prime minister with a morsel of respect for his or her country would have resigned long ago. Yet here you are, still sleeping in Downing Street.”

“Ha! I wouldn’t call this sleep.”

“Ha! I wouldn’t call this sleep, Your Majesty.”

“Oh yes, sorry, Your Majesty.”

“I think you are even more incompetent than that half-witted Trump fellow, and believe me, he makes Mussolini on his third bottle of Chianti seem like Bismarck. How could Trump possibly have decided to open a front across a vital strategic strait occupied by an enemy? And not just any enemy, but one led by a suicide cult within the society that had invented chess. The Persians conquered Afghanistan. Do I need to tell you what the Afghans did to the Americans? Dear God. Whatever next?”

“Hard to say, Your Majesty.”

“Oaf! Imbecile! Illiterate buffoon! First time, Your Majesty, and Ma’am thereafter. Do not under any circumstances send our navy into the Strait of Hormuz.”

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Both aircraft carriers go round in small circles. The F-35Bs, the same: take off, circle, then come back, out of fuel. But we do have a warship.”

“One? Just one? Is that it?”

“Yes, Ma’am. But at least it floats, yes, and even moves forward when told to. Well, sort of. Maybe it obeys orders because it’s German.”

“German? What do you mean, German?”

“It’s borrowed. The Royal Navy no longer has any ships. Admirals galore, but no ships.”

The Queen briefly digested this.

“We used to sink German ships,” she said. “Now we borrow them.”

“Bit of an improvement, what!”

“When my husband served with the British Pacific Fleet in 1945, it had it had five battleships, six fleet aircraft carriers, nine escort carriers, 16 cruisers, more than 30 destroyers, 16 submarines and around 50 escort vessels. We also had fleets in the Mediterranean, the North Sea and the Atlantic.”

“Ah, but there were no women sailors then. Ours is an equal-opportunities, gender-blind, multi-racial Navy!”

“But with no bloody ships.”

“Yes, well, sort of.”

“The RAF has no planes, and the Army has what?”

“I hear there’s a tank on Salisbury Plain, but that’s about it, Ma’am.”

“In short, eff-all.”

“You could put it like that.”

“I just did. And there’s this Mandelson business.”

“Is there a problem there?”

A long silence ensued before the Queen spoke.

“This creature, this reptile, this this this worm, wrote virtual-love letters to a known rapist and child-abuser. Which is why both Five and to Six and the Vetting Commitee warned against putting him anywhere other than in Pentonville Prison and hanging by his thumbs, yet you appointed him our Ambassador in Washington. Why? That we might confirm our worldwide reputation as a nation of traitors, perverts, paedophiles, degenerates and debauchees?”

“And immigrants. We’ve imported more immigrants than any other country in Europe. Five million in the past dozen years. Makes you proud.”

“It might do if one of them was your effing chancellor. But she’s home-grown. When did she stop studying mathematics?”

“She never stopped, Ma’am.”

“I know, because she never even bloody started. She also said she was a banker, didn’t she? Or is that rhyming slang?”

“A bit of both, actually. Also, she didn’t work as economist with the bank, as she claimed, but on the customer-service, tea-or-coffee side. But that seemed close enough to the money to make her chancellor.”

“And she alone holds Britain’s future in her hands?”

“Not quite alone. Peter was going to get her some advisers.”

“Oh Peter, was, was Peter?”

“Yes. And they had excellent character references.”

“Sounds promising. Who from?”

“Couple of chaps with odd-sounding names. I made a note of them. One second. Here we are! Vladimir Putin and Xi Jinping. You ever hear of them?”

The Queen said nothing for a minute.

“A bitter pill, Starmer, a bitter pill. Now I know how Henry VIII felt when he heard that Anne Boleyn was having it off with Thomas Cromwell.”

“She never was, was she? Lord love a duck, what a rascal. So that’s why Cromwell and his Roundheads chopped the king’s head off!”

The Queen studied Starmer carefully before speaking.

“Did you have a total lobotomy when you ran the Crown Prosecution Service, Starmer?”

“Let me think, let me think. Mmmm. …I don’t think so.”

“I must leave you now, Starmer. My brain hurts. But before I go, just do me a small favour and please please please don’t remind me what day it is.”

“Of course not, Your Majesty, I wouldn’t dream of it. And oh, by the way – Happy Birthday!”

With a single, sideways-stroke of her sword, the Queen beheaded him.

Starmer started awake. He blinked. Yes, he was alive and still Prime Minister, the Queen really was dead and, thank God, all would now be well for Britain….