I have as much chance of becoming Prime Minister as of being

Host: The pub was half-empty, its wooden beams gleaming under the lazy glow of evening lamps. The air smelled of ale, rain, and the faint ache of old conversations. Outside, the London drizzle whispered against the windows — soft, unbothered, eternal.

At a corner table beneath a crooked portrait of Churchill, Jack and Jeeny sat nursing their drinks. Between them, a battered newspaper lay folded to an article with a photograph of a man who wore ambition like a joke he told too well. The headline quoted him:

“I have as much chance of becoming Prime Minister as of being decapitated by a frisbee or of finding Elvis.” — Boris Johnson

Host: The quote shimmered with the irony of prophecy — both comic and tragic.

Jack: (snorting) “And yet here we are. Frisbeeless. Elvisless. But he got the office.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “It’s always the jesters who end up on the throne. Maybe we mistake humor for honesty.”

Jack: “Or mistake charisma for competence. The world’s built on that trick.”

Host: The rain tapped harder against the window now, a percussion to their debate. A young couple laughed near the bar, their voices bright, fleeting. But at this table, time slowed — two minds dissecting irony with surgical precision.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, though. That’s how people like him disarm us. They make us laugh before they take themselves seriously. The clown becomes the king while everyone’s still clapping.”

Jack: “It’s not just politics. It’s everywhere. Self-deprecation is the new mask for ambition. Pretend you don’t want it — and the world will hand it to you.”

Jeeny: “Because we love underdogs. Even fake ones.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “So what, you’re saying humility is just strategy now?”

Jeeny: “No — I’m saying irony is. You can hide anything in irony. Fear, greed, narcissism. The moment you make a joke of yourself, no one can wound you.”

Host: The fireplace crackled faintly. The shadows danced across their faces — Jack’s sharp, skeptical; Jeeny’s soft, thoughtful. Between them, the newspaper headline seemed to smirk in print.

Jack: “I wonder if he meant it when he said it. Maybe, for once, he told the truth by accident.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he meant it the way all opportunists do — as misdirection. The more absurd the denial, the easier it is to believe.”

Jack: “Like a magician waving one hand while the other steals your wallet.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Exactly. Politics as sleight of hand. Promise chaos, deliver control. Pretend you’re the fool — become the king.”

Host: A waiter passed by, refilling their glasses. The sound of rain softened; the air felt thicker now, wrapped in reflection.

Jack: “You know, I used to think irony was intelligence. That it protected people from stupidity. Now I think it’s just camouflage — cleverness disguising cowardice.”

Jeeny: “It’s both. Irony is armor, but it’s also a trap. If you hide behind the joke long enough, you forget how to speak seriously.”

Jack: (leaning back) “And yet that’s the language of our time — everything’s tongue-in-cheek. Politicians, artists, activists. No one dares sincerity anymore.”

Jeeny: (gazing at the rain) “Because sincerity demands accountability. Once you mean something, you can be measured by it. So people perform instead — humor gives them distance from their own lies.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flicked back to the quote, the ridiculousness of it. Decapitated by a frisbee. It lingered like a metaphor — absurd, precise, and fatal.

Jack: (half-smiling) “You have to admit — it’s genius. The imagery alone. It’s Shakespeare meets Monty Python.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “That’s the problem, Jack. The poet wins votes, not the pragmatist. We remember the metaphor, not the meaning.”

Jack: “So what’s the meaning then?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “That power always arrives wearing a grin.”

Host: Her words settled like dust — soft, inevitable. The pub around them felt smaller now, the laughter from the bar fading into a murmur. Jack’s hand rested near the paper, his fingers tracing the edge of the headline.

Jack: “Do you think he knew — that he’d become the very thing he mocked?”

Jeeny: “Of course he did. That’s how irony works. You make the prophecy sound impossible so no one notices you fulfilling it.”

Jack: “So it’s not irony. It’s insurance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because if you fail, you were joking. And if you succeed, you were charming.”

Host: The rain had stopped now. Outside, the wet cobblestones reflected the golden glow of the streetlamps. The pub clock ticked toward closing, each second marking another small surrender to truth.

Jack: “You think anyone ever really stops pretending in this game?”

Jeeny: “Not in politics. Maybe not in life, either. But there’s a difference between pretending to be human and trying to be one.”

Jack: “And where does that leave the rest of us?”

Jeeny: “Somewhere between laughter and disbelief. The only safe place left.”

Host: She took a slow sip of her drink, her reflection flickering in the window — half-real, half-ghost. Jack watched her, his expression softer now, the cynicism fading into something close to admiration.

Jack: “You ever think about how often truth arrives disguised as a punchline?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And how often the joke ends up on us?”

Host: Outside, a frisbee, caught by the wind, sailed across the empty street — a flash of white spinning under a streetlamp — before vanishing into the night.

Jack noticed it, eyes narrowing slightly.

Jack: “There’s your irony, Jeeny. He might still be right about the frisbee.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Maybe irony’s the only truth we trust anymore.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the pub’s windows glowing in the wet dark, the two figures still talking, still dissecting the absurd machinery of the modern world.

On the table, the newspaper headline remained — bold, ridiculous, eternal:
“As much chance of being Prime Minister as of being decapitated by a frisbee.”

Host: And perhaps that’s what makes history tragic —
that the ones who laugh at destiny often end up becoming its punchline.

Because in the theatre of power,
every jest hides ambition,
every denial hides desire,
and every laugh — if you listen closely —
is just the sound of prophecy pretending to be a joke.