Liz Truss: The First Shower

It had been a month since Liz had moved into Downing Street and she had yet to use the shower. She kept getting lost on the way to the bathroom. According to previous tenants, it was on the same corridor as the main bedroom. Theresa had drawn out a diagram showing a straight line from one door to the other. Clutching it now, Liz tried desperately to find her way to the bathroom, but soon realised the fatal error of these directions – they didn’t include instructions on how to get out of the bedroom!

After three wrong turns and several hours of navigating the frustratingly small corridor, Liz finally stumbles through the bathroom door. Quickly, she jumps in the shower and delights in the heat of the water running through her hair. Giggling maliciously to herself, Liz revels in the knowledge that all this warm water was made possible by her superior economic skills. Many said tax cuts wouldn’t work, but they were wrong! Tax cuts meant her friends that really needed the extra heat, such as Lucifer, could get it and peasants who wouldn’t benefit from tax cuts would slowly freeze to death. Naturally, this would cut down the pesky working class without being as expensive as the Hunger Games Rishi had planned. 

Moving to scrub her hair, Liz reflects on what a good place the shower is to think. She’s had to do a lot of thinking this past month. The unfortunate thing about basing all your policies on what you think is popular is the need to think of explanations for your u-turns. At least she can always begin her answers the same way:

“Didn’t you want to drop tariffs on imported steel, at the cost of £100m to domestic industry?” Kwasi Kwarteng had asked when Liz called herself good with money.

“Yes, but…”

“Didn’t you want to remain in the EU?” Jacob Resse Mogg asked when Liz styled herself like the Eurosceptic Margaret Thatcher.

“Yes, but…”

“Didn’t you want to abolish the monarchy?” asked the Queen, sanitizing her hand after Liz had slobbered all over it, in an attempt to emulate the beloved corgis and immediately become more likeable than Boris.

“Yes, but…”

All this mention of ‘buts’ had Liz thinking about her own backside. She had expected it would need more than the standard scrubbing this month, what with the Tory tradition of forming a human centipede in order to kiss the arse of whoever is in power. But all mouths still seemed to be pressed firmly to the bulbous bottom of Boris Johnson. Wherever he went, a gaggle of Tories followed, begging him to return. 

Sighing, Liz steps out of the shower. She leaves the hot water on – if she, a middle-class, white woman who has made her career out of selling her soul to the devil can afford excess hot water, so can you! Liz wraps herself in a pink kimono left behind by Boris. She no longer feels like having a shower. Realising her own unpopularity soured the glee at finally finding the bathroom. Slowly, Liz makes her way to the Margaret Thatcher shrine at the back of the house. Kneeling, she asks the Iron Lady what she could do to make herself more liked by her peers. 

Slyly, Margaret’s ghost leans out of the shrine and whispers, “Start a war, darling. That always gets the good old fashioned British colonial spirit up!”

Liz perks at the idea. Immediately, she jumps up and begins to run through the single floor that makes up the residence, trying to find a map with countries she can invade. But she’s forgotten the map Theresa drew! With no instructions, Liz can’t find her way out. Disappearing into the corridors, no one ever sees Liz Truss again. 

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