It’s 5.30am. The alarm goes off. Dominic Raab is awake almost immediately. He’s always been a light sleeper. Dom gets out of bed and cranks out 50 press ups, the veins on his arms bulging pleasingly. He’s always prided himself on having the best guns in cabinet. Raab strips off and wanders naked towards the bathroom. There’s nothing he likes more than an ice-cold shower. As the water pounds his body, he checks for tell-tale signs. Sure enough, there are traces of blood under his finger nails. He must have been on another killing spree the night before. The anger management course really is proving worse than useless. He tries to remember where he had been so he could retrace his steps and remove the evidence, but his mind is a blank. More bodies to add to the cold case count. Just as well the police now only investigate crimes that have yet to be committed. Psycho Killer. Qu’est-ce que c’est? That was as about as good as the day got for the justice secretary. By 7am Raab was in the broadcast and radio studios for the morning media round, trying to explain why yet another party wasn’t really a party. The May 2020 party couldn’t have been a party because everyone was wearing suits was his first explanation. One that didn’t survive contact with reality when it was pointed out to him that a lot of people go to parties dressed in suits. “Um, well … ” Dom bluffed. At least it wasn’t a fancy dress party. Raab had another go. It wasn’t a party. It was just 19 people divided into three separate groups in the Downing Street garden having a drink on a sunny evening after a hard day’s work in No 10. “That’s odd,” said every interviewer. “Because No 10 had been very keen to stress that what the picture showed was everyone working flat out while getting a bit pissed.” Dom could feel his anger levels rising and mouthed a quick “wanker” before he tried another explanation. The meeting had begun indoors and had only moved outdoors when everyone realised they needed a great deal more space to split into several sub-groups. Just a shame they had forgotten their laptops and notebooks. Perhaps they all had photographic memories. By now, it was hard to tell who was the most confused. But Dom ploughed on regardless. It was all perfectly normal and within the rules, even though the government had explicitly stated that it wasn’t. After all, no one else in the country was knocking back the vino with a large number of mates after a day in the office. No photos had emerged of doctors or nurses getting completely trashed after a day trying to keep Covid patients alive. Well maybe they ought to have, snapped Raab. It was well known that a few shots could steady the hands before delicate microsurgery. Having finally more or less agreed the party was a continuation of a work meeting that had got out of hand and the rest of the country had been total mugs for not realising those kinds of gatherings were totally permissible, the questions moved to the cast list. Was one of those present, Martin Reynolds, Boris Johnson’s principal private secretary? Absolutely. It had been vital he had been there so that he would be able to give impartial evidence about what had taken place for any inquiry once Simon “Off The” Case had been stood down for having parties of his own. And what was Carrie doing there? “Easy,” said Raab. The prime minister’s wife often turned up to cabinet and had a few helpful suggestions to make about how to hold the best parties that weren’t parties. Boris was very inclusive that way. She had also come down from the upstairs flat to see if anyone wanted to use Wilf’s paddling pool and it was a very warm evening. And while she had everyone’s attention, did anyone know of anyone other than Lord Goldsmith who would pay her £100k a year for doing next to nothing? She and Boris were feeling a bit broke. Still, at least Raab had the rest of the morning off to watch Lord Frost explain why he had resigned from the cabinet when he still thought Boris was a superb prime minister. Just one that was making all the wrong decisions. Apparently the Northern Ireland protocol was a bit trickier than everyone had expected. Whoever would have guessed? But hey, the whole country could have a laugh at Liz Truss trying to negotiate Brexit. Come the afternoon, Dom was back in No 10 for a cabinet meeting to determine the government’s response to the Omicron variant. “I have a great plan,” said Boris. What is it, everyone had asked. “We’re going to do absolutely nothing for the moment.” Not even a press conference? “Are you mad?” said Johnson. Always a delicate question given the psychological makeup of the government. “That way we would be bound to be asked questions about the party. And about how we daren’t implement further measures before Christmas as the rest of the Tory party would go nuts and we’d have another major rebellion on our hands.” “So we’re going to ignore the scientists?” “Absolutely. Who cares if a few more people die? What matters is dithering. Party before country. Saying we are thinking very hard about new measures but while doing nothing. Just another day or so and there’s no chance of recalling parliament before Christmas. The time to look decisive is sometime next week. Or the one after. I’m not sure which.” A Farewell to Calm by John Crace (Guardian Faber, £9.99). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply. • The headline of this article was amended on 24 December 2021 in line with editorial guidance on mental health terms.