Andrew Marr thinks he’s a novelist. I don’t

It’s September 2017, and our still apparently United Kingdom is in the throes of a referendum campaign. The wise, charming, beloved Prime Minister, successor to ‘the shortlived Johnson administration’, wants to keep us in the EU. Olivia Kite, a spike-heeled mixture of Elizabeth I (Horrible Histories version) and Rebekah Brooks, heads the ‘No to Europe’ brigade. The country, showing rather more passion on the issue than is quite credible, is divided down the middle. At the crucial moment the PM drops dead at his desk. Without him, the ‘Yes’ vote will be lost. Only his inner circle know he’s died. What to do?

Well, obviously, they conceal the death, decapitate the corpse, sneak it out of Downing Street through secret tunnels, and get Rory Bremner to impersonate the deceased on a radio phone-in. As you do. But slippery PR guru Alois Haydn (who, uniquely, has ‘hazel’ hair) is the Judas in their midst.