The alarm went off at 7.45am. Big Dave eased himself out of bed. For the first time in months, he caught himself smiling. Today was going to be a good day. For the last seven years he had felt somewhat aimless. Drifting towards futility. Sure, he had money. What former prime minister didn’t? Though he was only a jobbing millionaire. Shame Greensill had gone bust before he could cash in his share options. But all he tended to do these days was potter out to the shepherd’s hut and browse the John Lewis website. Now everything had changed. He was back in the game. He still had to pinch himself. Even he had been completely blindsided by the prime minister’s call asking him to step in as foreign secretary. Not that he had really kept up with international affairs. His global contacts book had rather closed back in 2016 when he had screwed things up by accidentally taking the UK out of the EU. Still, no harm done. And he had told – what was his name? It would come to him in a minute. That was it - Rishi Sanauk – that he’d muddle through somehow. Winging it was his USP. Best of all, he’d get to be a lord. No having to pretend to care about the great unwashed. Sam would be thrilled. The next best thing to being born a lord, being made one. Rather looked down on him. Now he had finally come good for her. And the House of Lords appointments committee had rushed through its approval. Had turned a blind eye to his dealings for Greensill. What was a bit of lobbying for dodgy contracts? It was a done deal. A weight off his mind. Government wouldn’t be government without a bit of recreational corruption. Lord Big Dave took his place at the cabinet table next to Oliver Dowden – “Get me a coffee, there’s a love” – almost directly opposite the prime minister. It was as if he had never left. He caught the eye of Jeremy Hunt. The face was familiar. Hadn’t he been his rather ineffectual culture secretary in 2010? Those were the days. Before everything went hideously wrong. “Why are you sitting in George Osborne’s seat, Jezza?” he asked. “I’m the chancellor,” Hunt blushed, his eyes revolving nervously. “No. You’re kidding me. You know nothing about the economy.” “But nor does anyone else around here. I was the last person remaining who looked vaguely plausible.” “Hmm. That bad, then. Needs must, I suppose. Right. Let’s get started.” “Excuse me …” said Sunak. “What do you want?” “Er … it’s customary for me to start cabinet meetings.” “Of course it is. Silly me. Keep forgetting. Euphoric recall at being back in the room. Now you run along and start the meeting.” Rishi balanced himself precariously on a couple of cushions and tapped the table. He’d like to welcome old friends and new. He was sure they were all going to make a great team. Just like he had been sure the last team would make a great team. He was nothing if not the “change” prime minister. The Tory leader who had cleared out all the rubbish of the last 13 years and then brought the rubbish back into government. Nothing got past him. “You go first, my lord. Talk us through the international scene now you’ve had a day inside the Foreign Office.” Lord Big Dave fiddled with his folder. To tell the truth he hadn’t actually spent any time the day before doing any actual work. Rather he’d been organising the office furniture. Never mind. No one could bullshit better than him. The details were for the little people. The situation in Libya was very grave, he said. But he was sure Brexit would be a tremendous success. “I was thinking more about Israel/Gaza and the war in Ukraine?” said Sunak, hesitantly. “Yes. Terrible. Serious. Very serious,” Lord Big Dave barked, sounding more confident than he felt. He would be sure to send one of his juniors to investigate. In the meantime he would be calling for an immediate referendum. That would be bound to make things better in the Middle East and Ukraine. But no one should get too hung up, because no one there would be listening to a word the British foreign secretary had to say. So it was all just PR for the domestic punters. In any case, in a year’s time, we’ll all be out of here … “Sorry?” said Sunak. “It’s obvious,” replied Lord Big Dave. “We all know we’re going to lose the election. We’re just here to try to minimise the loss. And I’m certainly not going to hang around for any longer. Far too much like real work. I’m just getting background for a podcast I’ve got planned. Everyone’s got one these days.” “I miss being foreign secretary,” sighed James Cleverly. “All those flights in private jets. Now I’m holed up in the Home Office bunker trying to care about small boats.” Lord Big Dave looked to his right. Not a clue. Didn’t recognise the woman. Apparently she was Vicky Atkins, the anti-health secretary whose husband was dedicated to fattening up the population in his job as chief exec of UK Sugar. That was a good fit. Finally he saw a face he recognised. The half-witted Esther McVey. The minister for common senselessness. Let’s hear from her. “I’m just the token GB News …” “Yes, thanks Esther,” said Sunak. “That’s all we’ve got time for. A brilliant meeting with some excellent contributions.” Lord Big Dave walked out with his valet – aka Andrew Mitchell, one of his junior Foreign Office ministers. “You run along to the Commons to give a statement on Gaza,” he said. “I’m off to lunch.” Mitchell droned his way through the statement. Everything was really terrible, he really didn’t know what to do and it was a huge shock to find that no one in the Middle East was listening to anyone in the UK. Labour’s David Lammy responded by saying it was a shame he could only talk to the monkey. The organ grinder was off in the Lords. But he thought what was needed was a really long humanitarian pause. But not so long as to be a ceasefire. All clear? Not everyone on the Tory backbenches was happy with Mitchell either. There are plenty, including Julian Lewis, Liam Fox and Michael Ellis, who think they could have made a decent fist of being foreign secretary. Sunak has somehow managed to piss off all his backbenchers. They are now in a less than dignified huff. Also having a major hissy fit was Suella Braverman. Having been relatively quiet since being sacked as home secretary, she took to Twitter late on Tuesday afternoon to publish her departure letter to Sunak. The prime minister had not kept any of his promises to her. He had owed his leadership success to her and he had betrayed her. There were documents to prove it. He had betrayed the nation. He was a disgrace. Rwanda was doomed to failure regardless. He was weak, weak, weak. Putting himself before the party. Putting himself before the country. Not for the first time, the Tory party was engaged in a civil war. There will be blood. It’s all about to get very nasty. Send for the popcorn. A year in Westminster: John Crace and Marina Hyde live in London and online On Monday 11 December 8pm–9.30pm GMT, join John Crace, Marina Hyde and Pippa Crerar for a livestream discussion on another year of anarchy in British politics. Book tickets here or at theguardian.live. Depraved New World by John Crace (Guardian Faber, £16.99). To support The Guardian and Observer, order your copy and save 18% at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.