“Other local traditions include warm beer and bad weather…” and while they waited for Liz to return from Scotland, the Tory MPs instinctively went to the pub and watched the sky. Boris, they whispered, must have rain danced. From the look of the clouds, London was ready for the bucket. By late afternoon, Downing Street was engulfed by the world’s media and the best vantage point I could find was wedged between a camera crane and the Cairo Tonight presenter. I could see Liz’s new pedestal. It did not bode well. A gruesome modernist rendition of a pedestal, deconstructed and twisted, it looked as if it had been fashioned by an evil goblin. The furniture also started to leak. At 16.30 the heavens opened. The deputies ran for cover. The speech, we feared, might be cancelled. As for what happened next, conspiracy theorists will say Liz simply told her driver to keep cruising around Trafalgar Square in nautical circles until he stopped, but I prefer providence – because the downpour happened just as her car was spotted to cross Westminster Bridge. Taking advantage of the rush to lower the umbrellas, I pushed and scratched my way forward until I could see clearly through a gap between two disjointed thighs and watched as the Prime Minister took her place on Sauron’s podium. After all, I was going to cut my taxes. Or maybe not. It seems that if a reader was expecting jam today, you might have to wait until tomorrow – or two years from now. We are facing an ominously declared “storm”, referring to Ukraine and the energy crisis, and it will be powerful. But we will get through it because Britain is ‘stronger’.
