This article is taken from the May 2022 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.

“And with one bound, he was free!” Bozza is telling me how he has beaten everyone again. He is so clever. “They all told me I was done for, but I said, ‘Just wait, something will turn up, the circus will move on,’ and what do you know, Russian invasion, war crimes, stalwart resolve, national hero!”

We are at Chequers, which is where Cazza sends us when she needs some peace and quiet. It is a big house with lots of interesting smells and a huge lawn, but the ladies who are in charge here are not much fun. They make me sleep in a cold passage, when there are lots of beds upstairs. Bozza isn’t sure about them either. “They’ve been very offhand with me,” he told Cazza, “ever since you had that party and they all got Covid.”

So it is just the two of us out for a walk. Bozza had an idea that we could invite some people from a place called Ukraine to stay with us. “Look at these poor young ladies,” he said, “all by themselves, far from home, sweethearts away at the front. Least we can do is offer them a warm bed.” But when Cazza saw the pictures, she took away his computer. “Very well, alone,” Bozza said, in a quiet voice. 

“You know, Dillers old chap,” he tells me as I roll in a lovely bit of fox poo, “they said I’d be out by Easter. What those people don’t understand is that when a chap has that inner oomph, that Olympian greatness, then all the piffle about women and children and parties and wallpaper — none of it matters! I’m invincible!”

He puffs his chest out and looks across the fields. “Dom’s busted. Rishi’s blown up. Election’s in the bag, too. It’ll be Keith looking sad about things versus me smashing walls on diggers. I might still be here in five years. Imagine that. Just you and me, and Cazza when she can get away from town.” 

He goes quiet for a bit. “Just us. Here. For years and years.” 

Cheer up, Bozza! Look, I’ve found a cow pat!