Imagining if George Osborne were your dad

He wouldn’t play catch, that’s for sure

Just fitting in

Yesterday, on your Facebook you probably saw a video of George Osborne meeting some of Britain’s youth. There was the bit where he tried to play netball with them but they excluded him. There was the bit where he said “Here you go! Come on!” and the bit where he asked, “do you do the football and the rugby, yeah?”

There was the bit where he asked, “is there a good place to run around?” (what) and used the hand gesture of someone explaining something to a cabinet meeting. There’s the other bit where his hand just sits on the table, awkwardly, unnecessarily. All you can think about is the hand. Then he starts bobbing his head and you are hypnotised by that, instead.

The question many people are asking: has George Osborne ever met a child before? Imagine if he were YOUR DAD.


I was getting my snack out of my bag when Miss Morris slunk up behind me.

“Can of Coke, is it?” she asked, a little shrilly. Her voice reminded me of someone’s. Possibly someone I’d heard on television, or downstairs after my bedtime. “Yes,” I answered, cautiously. “What do you think your father would think about that?” she replied.

So it turns out, Dad’s banning fizzy drinks. Or that’s what Miss said. Apparently it will make us all better at netball. Or at least give us a shot at getting the netball in the first place. Anyway, long story short, Miss Morris confiscated my Coke, muttering something about gin and tonics.

I walked home to Number 11. Dad was at the kitchen table. He got home early, because he’s extended the school day, or something. I don’t know. I think it’s something about China. We’re going there on our next holiday. At least it’s not the Northern Powerhouse. I’ve already been to a power plant on a school trip and it was really boring.

“Child! Hello!”

I hung near the entrance to the kitchen. Stay or leave? I decided to stay as I reckoned it would make me more popular in the long-term.

Dad wanted to “pick my brains” about Maths. “Are your friends good at Maths?” he asked, impatiently, drumming his fingers across a red briefcase. I told him I didn’t have any friends because I’m not allowed to play with Boris’ children any more. Something about France, a knife, and some guys called Nigel and George.

I pointed out that he was supposed to be good at Maths. Isn’t that what being the Chancellor is? He arched an eyebrow and told me this was about working people. And making those working people study Maths because of China. Always with the China.

I suggested we played outside for a bit. Dad did that thing where he thinks he looks enthusiastic but actually looks haunted, or like you’ve suggested rubbing his face in excrement. I threw the ball at the garden wall and he stood with his legs splayed far apart and made slow gesticulations that suggested he might want to catch it (?). I threw it to him and it went over the wall into number 10. Dad said it’s OK because we’ll dig it out from under that bush in 2020.

Mum called us to dinner. I’d had a pasty on the way home (a rare treat when I have a budget surplus: Greggs is really expensive these days) but still had room for supper. Dad, on the other hand, was on a fast day. He looked a little tearful. I remember when he used to be a laugh. Also fat.

After supper, Uncle Dave popped over. He brought the ball and made a joke about tanks on the lawn. Dad didn’t laugh. Then Dave made a joke about Mrs May’s “rack”. Dad did that haunted/excrement look again and Mum didn’t laugh. In fact, she made me go to bed.

On the way up I snuck another Coke into my schoolbag for the morning.