Sunak was a Dick. A Private Dick – and also a Public Dick. The film noir rain lashed his office window in moody black and white. He looked at a picture of his wife and thought 'There's a dame whose share portfolio benefits from government policy'.
The red string and drawing pins all led to one place - but where? He looked at his glass of Diet Coke – his seventh of the day – and hurled it at the wall in frustration.
'Pride, greed, wrath, envy, lust, gluttony and sloth. But you need all of those to be a Tory MP' he thought to himself. 'Doc, Grumpy, Happy, Sleepy, Bashful, Sneezy and Dopey are already in the Cabinet. Seven Samurai? Seven days of the week? Seven weeks of Liz Truss as PM?'
'My god… it can't be. It's the bins! I must save the people before they have to buy insulation.'
Sunak has pledged that if he finds Gwyneth Paltrow's severed head in a box, he won't shoot Kevin Spacey, but instead he will put it in the brown organic bin that goes out on alternate Wednesdays, as long as the moon is in Aquarius. Otherwise he'd have to pay a meat tax. And without the rest of her body, Paltrow might not count as a compulsory car sharing companion.
'Why are my hands so heavy?' he wailed.
