‘The real scandals in the email diary of George Osborne, aged 52 and a quarter’ – Fleet Street Fox

An anonymous email has been sent to guests on the eve of George Osborne’s wedding, says Fleet Street Fox. Pity he’s not ashamed about everything else he’s done

Hullo! George Osborne here, the Ghost of Tories Past. I’m writing to all the most important people in the world ahead of my wedding, to let you know what I’m REALLY like.

You all thought I was a bit of a git, didn’t you? You thought I was smarmy and privileged, over-educated and under-aware. A soft white slug on the underbelly of David Cameron’s remarkable lack of anything much. Well, have I got news for you!

The person you thought was the cruellest moneyman Britain had seen since tax collectors sparked the Peasants’ Revolt in 1381 is, in fact, far worse!

For a decade I’ve been known as the heir to a family wallpaper fortune, a heartless hatchet man and a former Bullingdon boy who was subject of a variety of tales, from boozed-up benders to drug-laced dinners with a dominatrix. Ah, happy days.

Now I can exclusively reveal to the select group of thousands to whom this missive has been sent that, underneath the sneer that I modelled on that of a French aristocrat on his way to the guillotine, there lurks a rampaging beast that has destroyed everything I laid my cold fingers upon.

The Royal Mail. The BBC. The journalistic career of Andy Coulson. All dead or dying. And the entire public sector, from schools to borders, the taxman to bin collections, potholes to social care, nurses, doctors, pharmacists, physiotherapists – I buggered them all! AHAHAHA!

People knew it all along, of course. And not just because I look so eerily similar to the Childcatcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, which was, let’s face it, a big clue as to the foulness of my soul.

You knew I’d arranged for the BBC to lose 20% of its income by making it pay for over-75s free TV licences. You have all been told the Royal Mail was sold at a loss and people I coincidentally know quite well made an absolute killing. It was pretty public that I became editor of the Evening Standard, having failed at journalism decades earlier, when my first application was rejected because I was too contemptible to be allowed onto the Street of Shame.

And is there anyone left on the planet who didn’t know I was being paid £13,000 a day to advise an international fund manager for just one day a week? Which utterly evil dickbag doesn’t make £650,000 a year in their side hustle?

I’m particularly proud of the Northern Powerhouse. It’s made of gingerbread and Andy Burnham’s dreams, it cost the north £3.5billion, and anyone who tries to use it disappears into the Mersey.

Even this, dear Readers, is not the full list of all I am capable of.

I ran away from my constituents after just 7 years of austerity, knowing full well that either they or Lord Buckethead would do for me at the ballot box otherwise. That’s true public service – knowing when you’re about to be lynched by the public, and exiting stage left while they’re still tying the noose. Why do you think Boris Johnson did exactly the same, hmm? COINCIDENCE? Hardly! That’s Buller rule number 2. Rule number 1, of course, is ‘do whatever the hell you like’, and what I like is doing my worst.

I didn’t tell the Covid inquiry this, of course, but it was my austerity that left PPE to rot in warehouses past its use-by date. I could barely stop myself giggling when I said austerity had made the NHS more able to handle a pandemic. It was my austerity that cut nurses’ pay and led to strikes and burnout! It was my austerity that contributed to 220,000 dead and a million struggling with Long Covid! MINE, MINE, ALL MINE!

Which is why I told journalists I will not rest until Theresa May is “chopped up in bags in my freezer”. They thought I was joking, because when journalists feast on human flesh it’s a metaphor, but in my case it’s night-time sustenance.

I wanted to be Mayor of London, but was too unpopular. I tried to be head of the International Monetary Fund, so I could screw the whole world, but for some reason the global lizard illuminati wanted some banker to do it, rather than someone with a first letter at the other end of the alphabet.

But if you thought being utterly unashamed about any of that is the worst of it, you’re wrong.

I might be pigeon-toed. I might be unable to grow facial hair, or hide my disdain for all other life-forms. I might have the sort of body you’d expect to see clinging to trees in dark woods on damp nights. But, through some sort of twisted dark magic, I have somehow managed to bag a new wife. She’s crazy hot and I’m not, so what’s my big secret?

It’s not just the fact I gave her a 42% pay rise when she was my Treasury aide. The truth is that, within this exterior of a deep-sea creature immune to light, I have enough personal magnetism to run the Large Hadron Collider. And NO-ONE KNEW!

We wed on Saturday, in front of a crowd of high-ranking Tories, minor nobility, and anyone posh enough to bask in my reflected glory. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, and I don’t care how hurt my previous wife and family may be by my saying that out loud. There’s no such thing as karma, after all!!!

Oh wait, there’s an email. It must be for me, the subject line is “THE THINKS HE IS GOD ARTICLE”. This *is* going to be fun!