Rachel from Accounts
A Treasury Tragedy in 4 1/2 Billion Acts
It began with a spreadsheet and ended with a small stroke behind the left eye. Somewhere in between, Rachel, Chancellor of the Exchequer, or at least she was when she woke up this morning, plate spinner, cat herder and occasional economic clairvoyant: found herself staring at a number on her screen so large and so red it looked like a nuclear warning. £4,500,000,000. Missing. Not spent. Not stolen. Simply... not there.
“Bernard!” she barked, summoning her Private Secretary, who appeared in the doorway already holding a fire extinguisher, out of instinct more than foresight. “It’s not a fire, Bernard,” she said, pointing at the screen. “It’s a bloody disappearance. Where’s the money?”
“Well, Chancellor,” Bernard began cautiously, “that depends on how one defines ‘where’.”
Before she could throw the stapler, again, Sir Humphrey appeared, gliding in like a ghost in a Savile Row suit, holding a cup of Treasury-grade Darjeeling and a calm expression he had perfected during the 1981 fiscal crisis.
“Ah, Chancellor. I hear we’ve had a... moment of fiscal disorientation.”
“It’s gone, Humphrey. Four point five billion. That’s billion with a b. I’m due on Laura Kuenssberg in an hour and Ann bloody Widdecombe on GBeebies after that. She’ll eat me alive and call it patriotism.”
“Indeed,” Sir Humphrey nodded. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about Laura. She tends to get distracted by any sentence containing more than three commas. But Ann... yes, Ann might require more robust obfuscation.”
“Just tell me where the money is!” Sir Humphrey set his tea down with delicate precision.
“Well. It’s rather more accurate to say it’s been provisionally repositioned.”
Rachel stared.
“You see,” he continued, “the Green Resilience Infrastructure Funded Trust”
“The grift.... the GRIFT??.... THE GRIFT???” the colour was visibly draining from her face.
"Yes. With a silent T Pronounced griff, like a mythical creature. A useful metaphor, I find. Anyway, the fund was, shall we say, subjected to a process of cross-departmental fiscal realignment.”
Rachel blinked. “What the Hell does that mean?”
“It means, Chancellor, that we moved it before anyone could ask why we had it in the first place.” Sir Humphrey smiled politely. Rachel did not.
“I specifically told the Select Committee that money was ring-fenced for zero-carbon growth.”
“And so it is Chancellor. It is ring-fenced, metaphorically, across a broad policy spectrum. The Department for Levelling Up used £800 million to fund heated cycle lanes in marginal constituencies. DEFRA took £1.2 billion for a Strategic Avocado Resilience Taskforce, we used some aligned to low carbon community cohesion to cover up the shortfall in your welfare pogrom .... sorry, cuts ... and the Department for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport requested £750 million to create a TikTok campaign explaining monetary policy through interpretive dance.”
“You’re joking.”
“Oh no. They’ve already filmed the pilot. It features a young man in cargo shorts performing the Laffer Curve with glow sticks.”
"Low ... carbon ... community ... community cohesion, Humphry?"
"Quite, it's all trackable with measurable outcomes".
"That's right" interrupted Bernard, "When we bury the poor we can record it as carbon capture".
Rachel staggered backwards, gripping her desk like a drowning woman clutching a filing cabinet. “Right,” she said. “Damage limitation. I need lines for Kuenssberg. Something calm. Confident. Plausible.”
“Indeed,” said Sir Humphrey, steepling his fingers like a Byzantine archbishop. “You could say the money has been proactively realigned to maximise cross-sectoral efficiency in the delivery of sustainable, digitally-interfaced climate infrastructure.”
Rachel frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Which is precisely why it’s safe.”
She paced. “No. No, we need a villain. A legacy issue. Can I blame Osborne?”
“Certainly. Blame the algorithm. Say it was inherited from an austerity-era Treasury model, designed to hide losses by distributing them across multiple departments in descending order of political risk.”
“That’s...that's... alarmingly plausible.”
“Yes. It was my idea, originally.” he smiled sagely "I've used it a few times".
She paused. “And what do I tell Ann Widdecombe?”
Sir Humphrey’s brow furrowed, ever so slightly. “Ah. Now that is a different kettle of lunacy.” He thought for a moment, then nodded. “Tell her the money was used to protect British sovereignty from EU regulation. That it’s being stored offshore in a ‘patriotic tax haven’. Say the whole thing is part of Operation Dunkirk 2.0.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“It will be, once she hears about it.”
There was a knock on the door. Bernard popped his head in. “Car’s ready for the BBC, Chancellor. And the GBeebies producer’s sent over a list of questions from Ms Widdecombe. First one is: 'Why does Net Zero sound like a Marxist biscuit?'”
Rachel groaned and reached for her coat. “Pray for me,” she muttered.
Sir Humphrey handed her a folder titled Talking Points – Post-Truth Edition (Reeves) and gave his most reassuring smile. “Remember, Chancellor: facts are like Treasury figures. They only become dangerous when someone notices them.”
And with that, Rachel from Accounts descended into the jaws of Laura Kuenssberg: and worse still, a grinning Ann Widdecombe waving a Union Jack teacup and asking whether Labour's green policies were part of a secret French plot to abolish roast dinners.
There are few places in British broadcasting that resemble the inside of a care home just after Brexit passed, but GB News had somehow pulled it off. Fluorescent Union Jacks blinked rhythmically behind the anchor desk. A waxy slightly melted under the studio lights bust of Winston Churchill loomed over the studio like a war-themed alarm system. And at the centre of it all stood Ann Widdecombe, grinning like a particularly carnivorous nun.
“Do come in, Chancellor,” she sang, as Rachel Reeves was gently shoved into position by a runner who looked suspiciously like Nigel Farage in a wig. “We’re playing Budget Mastermind! today. Your specialist subject: losing other people’s money.” Rachel blinked.
“Is this the actual interview?” “Oh yes,” said Ann sweetly, sitting behind a desk marked THE PEOPLE’S TRIBUNAL. “We’ve even got buzzers this time. Red for treachery, blue for waffle, and yellow if you accidentally admit to being part of the World Economic Forum.” A studio audience made up of former UKIP donors and someone who once appeared in ’Allo ’Allo clapped politely.
Rachel adjusted her microphone. She had faced Select Committees. She had faced Kuenssberg. But this… this was deranged theatre.
Ann held up her first flashcard, clearly delighted.
“Question One! Where’s the £4.5billion pounds you were supposed to be looking after?”
Rachel steadied herself.
“The funds have been strategically reallocated to optimise interdepartmental—” BUZZ! The red light flashed.
“Treachery!” shouted the audience. A man in a Brexit bowler hat shook his walking stick with joy. Ann didn’t miss a beat.
“Question Two! What does 'Net Zero' mean to the average British pensioner?”
Rachel blinked. “It’s a legally binding climate target to reduce carbon emissions to—” BUZZ! Blue light this time.
“Waffle!” shrieked the audience. One woman actually booed in Latin. Ann leaned forward, eyes twinkling.
“Question Three! Did you or did you not say last year that ‘Labour would be more fiscally responsible than the Conservatives’?”
“I—” BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!
The lights went mad. Yellow strobe lights flared like a disco at an EDL fundraiser.
“World Economic Forum!” screamed someone from the gallery.
“She’s one of them! Check her for a Davos tattoo!”
Rachel tried to respond, but Ann was on a roll now.
“Bonus Round! You’ve got thirty seconds to explain how giving £750 million to TikTok dancers helps a single working-class voter heat their home in Stoke.”
Rachel opened her mouth, realised she had no answer, and instead offered a strangled sound somewhere between a cough and a plea for euthanasia. The buzzer blared again.
“Wrong!” Ann cackled. “Correct answer: it doesn’t, and they’re all communists.”
Rachel stared into the camera like a hostage blinking in Morse code. She thought longingly of Sir Humphrey. He would know what to say. He’d have called it a “dispersed legacy incentive package designed to reduce generational entropy.” Instead, all Rachel had was a rapidly unraveling reputation and an invitation to next week’s “Wokey Bingo”, hosted by Lee Anderson and a Labrador named Brexit. As the credits rolled over a closing shot of Ann toasting the camera with her vinegar mug and Rachel hyperventilating behind a soundproof screen, Bernard waited by the car, reading a memo from Number 10.
He sighed.
“Another masterclass in public engagement.”
In the back of the car, Rachel was Googling 'Norwegian fishing villages with no broadband.'
It was a Thursday, though Rachel Reeves had lost all sense of time and dignity. She’d barely had time to change out of the BBC-approved navy suit before being bundled into a ministerial Tesla and driven toward Clacton-on-Sea: a place that appeared to have declared UDI from reality sometime around 2016 and now existed entirely on Greggs, vape smoke, and Watney's Red Barrel, "At least there's no chance I'll bump into Farage here" she consoled herself.
She had been told by a creature from the Prime Minister’s Office calling itself a 'Comms Integration Liaison' that this was an opportunity to “engage with real voters in a safe, pro-growth environment.”
The truth became obvious upon arrival: Kier had stitched her up like a herring bi-catch in a fish box in Padstow. Not so much thrown her under a bus as gaffer taped her to the axle.
The village hall where the 'public listening forum' was due to take place was full to the gills with craggy-faced men in Barbour jackets and fury, women with clipboards from 'The Institute of Real Patriotism', and a roped-off media pen featuring the editorial staff of the Daily Mail, TalkTV, and something called The Albion Bugle.
Bernard, who had arrived early to set up the tea urn, looked grim. “They've brought in a whiteboard, Chancellor,” he whispered. “They’re calling it The Wall of Waste.”
At the front stood a woman in a beige jumper and iron will. She introduced herself as Daphne Watson-Guff, East Anglia coordinator for the TaxPayers’ Alliance. Rachel smiled weakly.
Daphne did not.
“We want to ask,” said Daphne, producing a laminated spreadsheet, “why your government has spent £4.5 billion on green initiatives, while the potholes on Boundary Road are so large they’ve been classified as Sites of Special Scientific Interest.”
A man in the third row shouted, “Woke tarmac!” Rachel took the mic. “The investment in green infrastructure”
“includes gender-neutral lampposts in Brixton,” someone shouted.
“We’ve seen the receipts!”
“No,” Rachel said, panicking. “That was a pilot scheme from the Mayor of London—”
“who you're not denouncing, so you must support it!” a woman in a mobility scooter barked, before crashing into a buffet table labelled 'Brexit Means Buffet'.
Behind her, the Wall of Waste was unveiled. It featured grainy tabloid images of wind turbines, cycle lanes, and a still from a Channel 4 documentary featuring a drag queen discussing carbon offsets. Rachel tried again.
“We’ve invested in forward-looking projects that deliver growth and jobs across the UK”
A farmer near the back held up a photo of a partially-built solar panel in a flooded field.
“This cost £200 million and now hosts a colony of woke frogs!”
Rachel blinked.
“I’m sorry... did you say woke frogs?”
“Yes,” said Daphne coldly. “They identify as amphibian-fluid and refuse to hibernate.”
A voice from the back asked the killer question: “Chancellor, are you aware that every time someone tries to fix a pothole in this town, they have to do an equality impact assessment?”
Rachel opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then looked over at Bernard, who gave a tiny, tragic shrug that said: We’re in Clacton now. Reason fled at the border.
Suddenly a man with a clipboard and a terrifying aura took the mic.
“Paul from the Institute for Fiscal Anarchy. Quick yes-or-no, Chancellor: is tax theft?”
Rachel spluttered. “No!” The audience gasped. Paul smiled.
“Next question. Can you explain why public money was used to fund a digital art installation in Camden that projected the phrase ‘Capitalism gives me hives’ onto a Pret a Manger?”
Rachel’s soul left her body. At that point, the door burst open and a group of 'concerned taxpayers' arrived from Southend, waving printed spreadsheets, demanding to know why their council tax was being used to subsidise a podcast about Marxist knitting in Hackney.
Rachel grabbed her bag. “We’re done,” she said, to no one in particular. “I’m done. This country’s done.” As she fled to the car, a local councillor was heard shouting:
“She never even answered about the woke potholes!”
In the back seat of the ministerial car, Rachel slumped. “What’s next?” she asked. Bernard flicked through his diary.
“You’re scheduled to address a Net Zero investment summit in Davos, but Jacob Rees-Mogg’s already denounced it as a Satanic orgy of lentils, so it may be off.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Interview with Lorraine.”
“Book me on a flight to anywhere without broadband.”
“Yes, Chancellor.” Bernard looked out of the window. In the distance, a pothole shaped like Margaret Thatcher loomed on the road ahead.
It was dusk in Westminster. The kind of purple-grey sky that suggested a storm or a minor reshuffle. Rachel stood outside Number 10, clutching a damp folder marked EMERGENCY FISCAL CLARIFICATIONS and muttering about tax rebates for pensioners who'd accidentally married crypto influencers. She had just endured a press conference where someone from The Telegraph had asked if she was "personally responsible for inflation" and whether the Treasury was now "a money laundering front for performance art."
She was in no mood for surprises. Which, of course, is exactly when the door to Number 10 burst open and a man in a giant ostrich costume came bolting down the hallway. It was Kier! Wearing the back half of a Bernie Clifton novelty suit: the big orange bird body flapping behind him like a diplomatic incident in a clown factory. His eyes wild. Tie skewed. Shirt half-untucked. Flailing wildly, he skidded to a halt in front of her and bleated: “Rachel! I’m rehearsing for the Spectator Summer Party! Jacob says fancy dress is de rigueur! It’s post-ironic!”
Rachel blinked.
“You’re dressed as a pantomime ostrich.”
“Not just any ostrich,” Keir said, panting. “A centrist ostrich! With vision! Forward motion! Boldness! And a high-fibre diet!”
Behind him, a junior policy aide in a George Osborne mask was being pelted with olives by a woman dressed as Ayn Rand.
“Is this… normal now?” Rachel whispered to Bernard.
He shrugged. “It’s either a nervous breakdown or an advanced media strategy. Nobody can tell anymore.”
"Am I going to have to give Israel all that money back they gave me?"
"I suspect so", signed Bernard "I think they were expecting some sort of return on it and I'm pretty sure this isn't it". He smiled and gave a reassuring pat on the shoulder, "I'll call Sir Trevor Chinn".
Rachel marched into the Cabinet Room. She needed gin. She needed paracetamol. She needed the earth to open and swallow her before she ended up as a meme captioned: “When the fiscal hawk is also a headless chicken.” supported by strings and held up by Netanyahu dressed like Pinocchio.
Later that evening, against her better judgement which she conceded had left a note on the fireplace and committed suicide, they arrived at the Spectator Summer Party. It was held in what appeared to be a Georgian garden in Kensington populated entirely by liquored-up libertarians and people who’d resigned from the BBC in protest at diversity. Gove was there, slurring Latin at a cheese table. Rod Liddle was holding court about how “Labour should be flogged for every syllable of spending”. In the far corner, someone was definitely vaping inside a Churchillian bulldog costume.
Rachel had barely stepped into the ring, sorry marquee, before a Andrew Neil, whisky soaked and belligerent, cornered her with a tray of martinis and a demand to know why the public sector hadn’t been 'sold off to Amazon and lit on fire'
She tried to defend the Treasury’s economic plan but was drowned out by Nadine Dorries attempting karaoke over a backing track of Land of Hope and Glory. For the love of Shatner ... please God make it stop.
Just then, with Alanis Morrissette levels of irony, the Kier-Ostrich made his entrance. He flapped. He bowed. He winked at Tim Montgomerie and chirped, “Never been more serious about growth!” There was a silence.
Then thunderous applause.
Rachel’s mouth hung open.
“They think it’s satire,” whispered Bernard. “They think it’s edgy. They’re going to invite him to speak at the Institute of Economic Affairs.”
Someone handed Keir a glass of sloe gin and a cigar the size of the Westway. He toasted to “rejoining the Single Market in spirit, if not in law, and only if no one notices.” Rod Liddle wept with joy.
Much later that night, Rachel sat in the back of a cab, watching London pass by like a fever dream soaked in brandy. Bernard sat beside her, reading tomorrow’s headlines:
- “Keir Starmer Declares War on Political Realism in Ostrich-Themed Address” - The Times“
- "Reeves Fails to Explain Quantum Budget Hole” - The Telegraph
- “Chancellor Accused of Causing Existential Grief in Frinton-on-Sea” - GB News
- “Why the Ostrich Is the New Face of Labour” - New Statesman
- "Nadine Dorries, Topless!" - The Star
She turned to Bernard. “Tell me I have an empty diary.”
Bernard coughed.
“There’s the Festival of Fiscal Responsibility next week.”
“Where?”
“In Milton Keynes. On a hovercraft.”
Rachel closed her eyes.
“I’m not real, am I?”
Bernard smiled.
“No, Chancellor. None of us are. We're just very expensive hallucinations"
"Thank Christ for that"
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