What happened to Kwarteng on Friday - and again yesterday, when Jeremy Hunt ripped up his mini-budget, poured petrol on the debris and set the whole thing alight - was more than your standard political sacking. So perhaps Kwarteng himself, whose academic credentials are second to none, has had such dreams. Anecdotal evidence suggests that the more you care about such things, the more likely they are to haunt you, which is why they’re so common among academic high-achievers. There can be few readers who haven’t dreamed about turning up to an exam entirely unprepared, or about walking onstage having neglected to learn the lines.
Nightmares about public failure are very common. Shame and ignominy engulfed me I knew I could never show my face again. But then - another disaster! The ex-Chancellor immediately retweeted them, mocking my slapdash efforts and pointing out that the first two lines ended with the same word. In desperation, I scribbled a few lines and posted them on Twitter, hoping they would mollify the poetry-fanciers of West Yorkshire. Disastrously, I had forgotten all about it, and only remembered when it was far too late to catch the train. This time, in a surprising new departure, he had organised a mano a mano poetry competition in Leeds, in which he and I were due to read our own verses. But the following night, Kwarteng visited me again. There is no escaping the Judge and in my dream, there was no escaping Kwarteng.
In a twist not unfamiliar in dreams, he was not merely himself, he was also the Judge, the gigantic and terrifying personification of evil in Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian.
#Family sought against tormentor. they wrong series#
The former Chancellor of the Exchequer, now working as a kind of journalistic bailiff, was pursuing me through a series of oddly blank rooms. Other people’s dreams are rarely very interesting, so I’ll keep this brief. I had a towering pile of columns to file, but had failed to start work on any of them. And so it was that, tossing and turning with a raging temperature, I was visited in my dreams by the late Kwasi Kwarteng. I had a horrendous cold over the weekend - so awful, in fact, that in an unprecedented development, my wife grudgingly conceded that “it might actually be flu”.
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