The grey clouds of summer threatened overhead. But Suella Braverman was too preoccupied to notice as she strode into the Home Office. It was the government’s August extravaganza: small boats week. The latest distraction from the cost of living crisis. A time to make everyone think foreigners were the reason they were broke.
Safe to say it hadn’t got off to the best of starts. How was she supposed to explain away the fact that since Rishi Sunak had promised to “stop the boats” the number of refugees waiting to have their asylum claims processed had risen by more than 10,000. God, she hated lawyers. Sometimes it was easy to forget that she herself had been one. Though how she had passed the exams was a mystery.
It was bad enough that a few dodgy lawyers were coaching some migrants on how to cheat the system. But what really stuck in her throat were the ones who were trying to make sure that the government complied with its legal obligations. How woke could you get? Lawyers upholding the rule of law. Whatever next? Why couldn’t they just accept her word that everything was in order?
Suella took the lift up to her office. It was time to do things differently. The finest minds in the country had tried and failed to come up with a solution to the small boats. An alternative approach was called for. The moment to put the feeblest minds in the country to work. A brains trust without the brains. A symposium of some of the stupidest people around. Two of whom just happened to be already in the building. Her ministerial colleagues Robert Jenrick and Sarah Dines.
Things were looking up. Lee Anderson and the justice secretary, Alex Chalk, had also made themselves available. If anything, lowering the stupidity bar still further. Surely together they could crack the refugee problem. Braverman began the meeting by thanking everyone for coming. It wasn’t every day you could assemble such an awesome lack of talent at such short notice. A convention of flatliners.
“OK,” said Suella. “Let’s start with the Bibby Stockholm barge. How are we going to persuade everyone that it’s basically a cruise ship in disguise …?
“That’s easy,” Lee interrupted. “We basically tell these fuckers to fuck off back to France if they don’t like it. We’ve done more than enough for them already.”
Alex gasped, wiping away a tear. “Oh Lee, that’s so moving. You are the beating heart of compassionate Conservatism. Of course we must tell these fuckers to fuck off. It would be the easiest thing in the world for us to offer asylum seekers accommodation that hasn’t been condemned as inhumane by other countries as we fail to process their claims. But sometimes we have to do the difficult thing. To take the road less travelled and treat them like shit. Otherwise we are letting down the British people. Where would we be without someone to blame?”
“I know I’m right,” said Anderson. If it were left to him, he’d fill the entire barge with 1,500 refugees, tow it to Calais and sink it. Let’s see how water-phobic some of them were then. That would send out the right sort of message. He was fed up with undesirables taking advantage of the UK’s generosity. Chancers who were gaming the system and preventing genuine asylum seekers from a new life.
Jenrick coughed nervously. “Umm, call me dim …”
“Hi, dim,” said everyone.
“… But I thought the whole problem was that there weren’t many safe and legal routes for refugees to claim asylum in this country.”
Anderson looked at Honest Bob in amazement. This was a whole new world of idiot. Er … Duh. That was the whole point. Keeping legal routes to the bare minimum. Forcing migrants to come illegally so we could then deport them. If we could get away with it. Allow the UK to claim it was generous while being anything but.
It was left to Dines to spell out the reality. The Home Office guidance was one of what she liked to call “theoretical assistance” in a train-wreck media interview she had given on Monday. Basically, the aim was to do as little as possible while insisting you were pushing the boat out. Though not necessarily in the literal way that Anderson might like. It was all down to the details. Putting a television in each room of the barge. Only to forget to connect it to an aerial.
Braverman moved the discussion on. Imagine for a moment she did manage to fill the Bibby Stockholm with more than 500 migrants. Imagine for a moment she did manage to deport 200 failed asylum seekers to Rwanda. OK, it was a big ask but indulge her fantasies for a while. But what then? What happened to the other 68,000 and counting?
Time for some blue-sky thinking. Could everyone suggest some other places where the UK could dump people it didn’t want. Starting with the letter A. Afghanistan, said Alex. Yup … That might work. If only some of the asylum seekers hadn’t originally escaped persecution there.
“Tell the fuckers to fuck off back to France,” Lee growled, by now on a loop, Mmm. Thanks, but no thanks.
“Ascension Island,” yelled Honest Bob.
“Where’s that?” asked Suella.
Dines chipped in. “I think it’s where Baby Jesus went to heaven from. So it must be in the Med.”
“Er, actually it’s in the middle of nowhere in the south Atlantic,” said Chalk. “Next to no facilities, a tiny population and hideously expensive. It would be cheaper to give every asylum seeker a £100K handout.”
“That sounds ideal,” Braverman said enthusiastically. “‘Anywhere else?”
“How about Niger?” squeaked Honest Bob. “There’s a civil war about to start there so there will be a lot of work for people looking to be mercenaries.”
“Pitcairn. St Helena …”
“Tell the fuckers to fuck off back to France.” Chalk swooned in the presence of such grace and beauty.
Braverman beamed. Her intuition had been right. Where would the country be without her crack team of halfwits?
Depraved New World by John Crace (Guardian Faber, £16.99). To support The Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
