An eerie voice has been speaking to the Prime Minister, urging him to 'build it'. And this time it isn't the ghostly echo of the phantom Cummings telling him to hire some Russians to construct a ridiculously expensive briefing parlour which will hardly ever be used. At least, not for the benefit of the British public.
Having consulted his new top, highly paid advisor - a dusty magic 8 ball with a few critical bits missing - Boris Johnson knows just what to do.
A final good old shake of the magic money trees on the Theresa May Plantation has conjured up another £400 billion which doesn't exist, and construction is under way on the next taxpayer-funded-forevermore money pit fresh off the Number 10 conveyor belt of bile.
Boris is erecting himself a London Gentleman's Club-style building, including a lavish, oak panelled smoking room with fine art purloined from around the Empire. Like there aren't 20 of those within vomiting distance of Whitehall already. But wait; this one will be replete with antique burgundy leather wingbacks for swilling brandy, sucking fat cigars, and chortling about how to f*@k the world up even more. So, completely different, then.
The hope is that when Boris gets it done, they will come. The ghosts of the greats from Conservative Party history will emerge from the vast fireplace, and croak ghoulish advice on which further fiendish plots to hatch.
Hullo, who's this? Why it's a glowing apparition of Enoch Powell with rivers of blood flowing from his eye sockets...