In 2020, President Donald Trump visits Prime Minister Jeremy Corbyn. Here’s what happens

They have orange squash and discuss Iran. This is our future, folks.

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The year is 2020. In his inaugural address back in 2017, President Trump declared war on “bullshit” and “those hippies in Islamic State”. In a marketing initiative said to have cost the American taxpayer at least $4.7m, the White House was rebranded the “Trump House”. It was very nearly the “White Trump”, but the new President, who, in his own words, has always had “a great relationship with the blacks”, didn’t want to, also in his own words, “offend the blacks by broadcasting my whiteness more than needs be”. Either way, the taxpayer has been compensated by being altogether abolished.

Meanwhile in the UK, 10 Downing Street has a shiny new red door. That’s right, everyone’s favourite mildly alternative history teacher impersonator, Jeremy Corbyn, has just been elected Prime Minister. And, following an “incident” in 2018, in which Roman Abramovich was allowed to buy London and turn it into one extremely large house, and then buy Manchester and turn it into one extremely large wardrobe, Corbyn has landslided it. David Cameron and his entire cabinet (apart from George Osborne, but we’ll hear more about him later) have been sent to “not a gulag because it has group therapy sessions and classes and crafting ” somewhere in Cumbria.

Outside Number 10, the Prime Minister and President wave at throngs of flashing press. Corbyn looks sallow, like a heartbroken chicken drumstick. Trump looks orange, like an orange.

The red door creaks open and the two men enter for their first leaders’ summit. Corbyn has done some redecorating. Declaring furniture the “crutch of the bourgeoisie”, all chairs have been replaced by piles of stuff, ranging from dog-eared copies of Das Kapital to several hundred “repurposed” Yasser Arafat bobble head figurines, gifted to Corbyn by Arafat himself in the mid-90s. These “people’s chairs”, as Corbyn insists on calling them, are not fit for purpose. Both men teeter atop piles of leftist knick-knacks, refusing to acknowledge their mutual discomfort. There is a faint aroma of quiche.

Trump: [with an expression somewhere between “grin” and “attack of indigestion”] So, here we are Jerry Boy. (Slaps ‘Jerry Boy’ on back).

Corbyn: [emitting a plaintive cough] It’s Jeremy actually.

Trump: [beaming] Sure … Now, I’m going to be frank with you, Jerry, because I respect you. I hate what you’ve done with the place.

Corbyn: [eyeing the middle distance like the carcass of the beloved family guinea pig] It suits our needs.

Trump: You should see what I’ve done with my place. Jerry, you ever seen a chandelier the size of a Chrysler?

Corbyn: I have not.

There’s a knock on the door.

Corbyn: Enter!

George Osborne, clad in a grey boiler suit, appears, brandishing a tea tray piled high with rich tea biscuits and a jug of orange squash. He places it on a “table” made from egg boxes and copies of the 1983 Labour manifesto.

Corbyn: Thank you, comrade.

Trump: Yeah, thanks Conrad.

Osborne appears to mouth “help me” at Trump, who is too busy suspiciously eyeing the jug of liquid more orange than himself to notice. Osborne leaves, silently.

Corbyn: [gesturing towards the tea tray] Please, help yourself.

Trump: Oh, I always help myself, Jerry. How do you think I made my billions? Affirmative action?

Trump guffaws, picks up a biscuit, sniffs it, then nibbles at it. He whispers something that sounds a lot like “damn commie BS”.

Corbyn: [unsmiling] That is humorous. [Calling] Comrade George!

Osborne re-enters the room in a flash and stands to attention.

Corbyn: [to Osborne] Laugh at the President’s joke for me, please.

Osborne emits an echoey trill of maniacal laughter. No one notices the tears welling up in his glacial Tory eyes.

Corbyn: That will be all, comrade.

Osborne leaves.

Trump: Goodbye, Conrad! [Turns to Corbyn] Nice fella.

Corbyn: [practically whispering] How little you know, Mr President.

Trump: You a golfer, Jerry?

Corbyn: On my sixth birthday, my father took me to play miniature golf in the market town of Highworth. I’d been there about an hour before I’d unionised the workers of Highworth Crazy Golf and nationalised a nearby ice cream van. I celebrated with a 99, which, subsequent to nationalisation, had become a 66. It was a productive day. Does that answer your question?

Trump: [flapping his arms] Enough of this, Jerry. Let’s get down to business [Corbyn winces at the word “business” and attempts to hide his revulsion by taking a massive gulp of orange squash]. I don’t like you. You… probably like me because I’m goddamn resplendent. But, whatever. Let’s talk Mid East.

Corbyn: [icy] Oh yes. Let’s.

Trump: I’ve tried everything, Jerry Boy. Threats, bigger threats, even bigger threats. But there’s just no getting through to these people. I don’t know about you, but lately I’m feeling nukey as hell. [Beaming] “Iran, you’re fired.” Can you imagine? Literally fired, because of all the fire.

With a heretofore-unfeasible degree of softness, Corbyn places his plastic cup of orange squash back on the tea tray. He rests his head in his hands and rocks gently, like a quietly doomed lifeboat.

Corbyn: Comrade George!

Once more, Osborne enters the room.

Corbyn: [to Osborne. His head is still in his hands] I need you to laugh for me again.

Eleanor Margolis is a freelance journalist.