I was strolling down a Balinese beach, sipping an Arak cocktail with the sun setting behind me when the terrible news broke. Boris Johnson had resigned, and I was needed back in London pronto to save the West.

To be honest, the inconvenience and timing of it all astounded me. My staff had only just begun to unpack my luggage, I had not finalised my dinner order (lobster bisque or thermidor?) and now I was expected to abandon the G20 meeting and fly 19 hours in a private Ministerial jet, which was running low on Fever Tree tonic water, in order to make a bid to be Prime Minister. 

Three months later and defying all the odds I had won the hearts of the 0.001% of British people who had any say in the matter and was elected Prime Minister on a wave of national indifference. 

The next day I flew to Balmoral and met the Queen who greeted me with the words “Not another one” and her signature eye roll.

We talked for about half an hour, and as I set out my plans for how I was going to save the West she nodded thoughtfully with her eyes closed and, when she came to suddenly, told me that she was going to be very busy in the coming months and might not be able to see me as often as she would have liked. If at all.

Two days later the terrible news came through of her death.

“I can’t really blame her,” my husband Hugh muttered as he unpacked our luggage and stepped over piles of dog poo that had been left by the previous tenants.

Whatever Hugh thought, the Queen could not help the timing of her death but the inconvenience of it all and the rank disregard for my feelings astounded me.

The dream I had had since childhood of saving the West from the Woke Establishment and the Anti-Growth Deep State would have to be put on hold.

The next two weeks were spent practising my most solemn looks in the bathroom mirror while Hugh fretted over Ocado deliveries, and the children played ‘World War Three’ in the nuclear bunker. And it was only once the funeral had passed that I could really get on with the Instagram photoshoots and the other business of government.

In early October I was invited to the European Political Summit in Prague and frankly, the timing could not have been worse. I had a longstanding appointment with Franco my hairdresser and one which could not really be cancelled because excuses like ‘leadership summits’ or ‘I’ve just been made prime minister’ simply do not cut or blow dry it with Franco. All attempts to get the other European leaders to change the date failed as they closed ranks against me. One angry hairdresser, a lost deposit and a pair of straighteners later I found myself in the Czech capital.

There I was greeted by a smiling President Macron of France who told me how nice it was to meet me and that he hoped that relations between the EU and Great Britain could be normalised again. The gall of the man astounded me. Seventeen point four million Britons had not voted to break free of the European stranglehold only for their Prime Minister to be insulted this way, I told him, adding that I intended to, “take our pork markets elsewhere.”

Back in London Hugh was trying to turn Downing Street into a home but the complete lack of support was nothing short of shocking. Having watched Love Actually in preparation for the move, I had been led to believe that Number Ten would be full of unconvincing cockney maids pushing tea trolleys about the place, but clearly, Hugh Grant had sacked them all. So, when we were in the flat, we were obliged to make our own beverages, run our own baths and even microwave our own Charlie Bingham lasagnas.

On one shocking occasion, I ran out of pule donkey cheese and Madeira and was forced to send an aide to Tesco to buy some ‘finest camembert’ and own brand port.  

All the while the brilliant mind of Kwasi Kwarteng was working overtime to deliver the Tufton Street dream of a low-tax, high-performance economy that would reward ordinary, hard-working Britons on six-figure salaries and take a little pressure off those boarding school fees and holidays in the Maldives.

“Unfunded tax cuts of £45 billion? Shouldn’t you be running that stuff past the Office for Budget Responsibility?” Asked Hugh as the Chancellor and I high-fived over the draft mini budget – but as Kwasi pointed out who needs fiscal responsibility when you have mates in the IEA egging you on!

Twenty-four hours later Kwasi delivered his ‘growth plan’ to the House of Commons and twenty-five hours later, the economy crashed.

Three days later the pound reached an historic low against the dollar and all attempts to tell colleagues that this was part of the plan fell on deaf ears. I soon realised that the Communist Bank of England, in league with the anti-growth, Marxist Treasury, working in league with the socialist global economy had connived to bring my hopes and dreams crashing to the ground. Reaching for a protein drink labelled ‘Raab’ in the Downing Street fridge, Hugh looked at me wearily and said: “I did fucking TRY to tell you.”

Soon the machinery of the Deep State had turned against me once more and I was being blamed for things which were nothing whatsoever to do with me, or Kwasi or our plans.

I had had forty days to save the West. If only I had had forty more. Or forty more on top of that. But it was not to be. 

Some have said that I failed – I say that you all failed me.