A New Christmas Carol

"Are there no workhouses and orphanages?" he asked his rag-clad intern.

"No sir", they squeaked, "You shut them all down."

"Good, good", he burbled, pausing in his phlegmy laugh to throw a dart towards a picture of his former colleague, Mitt FootKnob. "That will save us a lot of money."

Outside, the wind howled around Eastminster as the Treasury boss slunk out of the building like a tall stretch of raw petroleum, pausing for a short photo opportunity next to an eco-friendly Prius before slithering around the corner to where his Bentley convertible had been waiting, engines running, since 5am that morning.

McHunt wheezed himself into a tall chair by a large cardboard cut-out of his friend Dishy.

It was now dinner time on Christmas Eve, that time when all men and women and children are to be joyful, roasting their chestnuts over an open fire because they can no longer afford central heating and safety-checked electric stoves.

McHunt watched as the last-minute shoppers scurried along the mulch-ridden streets, clutching their vegan meat-substitutes to their bony breasts and hurrying home to where their fellow mortgage prisoners waited for them.

He grimaced, or smiled, or it could have been a piece of cheese or undigested beef repeating itself.

"What fools", he thought, as he recalled he had a big pile of letters on his desk from people asking him to help intervene against continued bad behaviour from the banks. 

That pile could wait until the New Year. 

As the car turned to number 11, his town house that he never had to pay a penny towards living in, thank goodness, he was startled to see - or at least he thought he saw - the round door handle shimmer and transform.

In the misty gloom, he thought the late Queen's face was glowering at him from the brass. She looked like she had just watched a US chat show.

Hurrying into the hallowed halls, stopping only to kick the Drowning Street Cat who happened to have pattered in behind him, McHunt wheezed himself into a tall chair by a large cardboard cut-out of his friend Dishy - an early Christmas gift to all of Dishy's friends - and poured himself a large glass of duty-free scotch.

"This is more like it", he said, raising the glass to Dishy.

"Here's to messing around with national newspapers next year again by pretending we're going to cut inheritance tax, and then not doing it."

A ghastly duo

He was awakened by the sound of bells. Not doorbells, nor phone bells asking him if he wanted to change his life insurance policy. 

No, it was a tinkling bell, almost like the sound of a conscience, had McHunt had one. Etherial bells that echoed up the chequered floors of the staircase. He grunted and turned his head to see what could be making that noise. 

With a start, he leaped out of his chair and backed up against the wall, eyes wide, as he saw the ghosts of Elizabeth Distrusst and her favourite chancellor floating towards him, dragging ephemeral spreadsheets of red, negative numbers behind them.

"What the duck do you two want?" he croaked, cursing the day he installed auto-correct on his work computer.

"We're here to warn you to learn from our faiiiiilllll", the duo wailed. "We're so unpopular we can't even get onto I'm A Celebrity."

McHunt threw his bottle of scotch at them, but the incorporeal couple advanced still, wagging calculators at him. Both calculators said: 8008135. Or, as Reassured's Phil Jeynes has reminded me, 5318008. Thanks, Phil.

We're so unpopular that we can't even get onto I'm A Celebrity.

"Get away! Get away! I have nothing to learn from you. You guys suck. I've saved the economy", he yelled, and slithered behind the coffee table. 

"When the clock strikes 12, you will be visited by three ghosts this Christmas Eve", they mourned. "Pay heed to them and learn the lessons they teach you, or all will be lost at the next general election."

They faded into the thin air, but just for a laugh, the ghastly apparitions suddenly shouted "Boogadyboogadyboo!" before laughing their way back into the spirit world. 

"Blazes", McHunt said, and stormed into his bedroom, stopping to take off his corporate-branded slippers before sliding into bed and pulling up the covers. 

But it was not long before Big Ben chimed 12.

The Ghost of Budget Past

A light appeared in the corner of the room and grew in brightness, as McHunt rubbed his eyes. The light became a figure of a young man in medical scrubs. A lanyard was around his neck. 

"Are you the first that I should be expecting?" McHunt said in awed tones.

"Yes", the spirit replied. "I am the spirit of NHS past. My name is Dr Patel and I was a junior doctor."

McHunt gulped. He would be in for an interesting ride.

The spirit whooshed him up the chimney and out across the streets of London. The starlight shone bright as they flew, faster and faster, back to an old university campus, covered with society sign-up stalls. 

McHunt saw a young lad waiting to join the Young Conservatives. "Why, that's me! This is my old haunts! I joined the YC on Christmas Eve and never looked back" he said. "Quite", said the spirit archly.

The scene shifted to a scene in Africa, where McHunt was handing out presents at a school. 

"Of course! Before I became an MP, I set up a charity to help AIDS orphans in Africa", he said. "This was one of the best Christmases ever."

"Because you were giving, rather than taking?" the spirit suggested. McHunt ignored him. 

"But it is better to give than to receive", the spirit urged.

I should have been nicer to all of you doctors.

McHunt looked at the happy faces around him, and felt a strange sensation in his chest. He held his hand to his breastbone.

"That's your heart", the spirit said kindly. "It has started to beat again".

The spirit then whisked him away to another scene. There were several people standing around in a studio, spotlights on their face and snarky interrogators pummelling them with questions.

"I don't want to see this", McHunt pleaded. "Please show me something else."

But the jeers continued from the audience as Hunt watched his younger self get buttonholed into a corner by the leading candidate Joris Bonson.

"You failed to give doctors a fair wage and people faith in their doctors", a heckler from the audience shouted.

"I get it", McHunt said, his face in his hands. "I need to give more and seek less of myself. I should have been nicer to all of you doctors. Please don't show me any more. Please, please"...

But his words were muffled by the folds of his blankets as he found himself once more in his bed. "Only a dream!" He said, and turned to go back to sleep.

Then the bell struck one.

The Ghost of Budgets Present

There was a warm glow coming from under the door. It wasn't his housekeeper trying to roast salad.

This was a different glow, a happy glow, the sort of glow not seen since the unauthorised parties of 2020, which the lawyers have instructed me to say absolutely did not happen.

McHunt crept towards the door and threw it open. There in the warmth of a log fire and the light of a joyous Christmas tree, sat a huge, jolly figure, all dressed in sequins. 

"Oh please don't tell me you're the second spirit I was expecting."

"Of course I am", she bellowed gently. "Straight off Strictly", and the spirit of Jan Tiddicombe swooshed her sparkly red ballgown in the gloaming, sending echoes of tiny red lights dancing across the walls.  

McHunt turned to leave but found the door locked; as he wheeled around to see what was behind him, he found himself in a large hall, where dozens of people with Santa hats were busy packing up parcels. 

"What is this?" he asked.

"It's one of your great successes", the spirit yelled. "It's a food bank in your constituency, wrapping up toys for children and boxes of food for people who have fallen on hard times thanks to the continued cost of living crisis."

"I don't want to see that", he pouted. "Show me something fun. Something Christmassy."

"Very well" the spirit screamed. "Come with me."

She led him through a shower of sequins to a raucous party being held in an office. "Oops sorry, you weren't meant to see that", she said, as she whisked him off to a new scene.

"Wait, wasn't that Mitt FootKnob behind a door with that adviser?" But his cries were lost to the wind as they arrived inside a house where there was a fine-looking roast turkey on a table heaving with produce. 

"This is Dishy's house", he said, laughing. "Oh I'm sure to find some cheer here", he said. 

The guests, oblivious to their spirit observers, were busy pulling crackers and telling jokes. 

"I've got one", said Dishy. "What is... no, no, stop laughing, I'll get to the point if you let me finish... What do you call it when you go on a long walk looking for someone who screws over the poor but helps rich pensioners?"

His wife squealed with laughter, flashing her diamond-laden fingers. "That's easy! An unwanted creature, with a bad track record of failing in leadership bids... Why it's 'We're going on a Mac - C..'"

"Hold it there dear, this is a family newspaper", Dishy stopped her, just in time.

But McHunt had heard enough. Was he really a figure of fun to his colleagues, and scorn to those who had suffered as a result of his policies? 

His mind cast back to the pile of letters from the Mortgage Prisoners' campaign groups, the Waspi Campaigners and the FT Adviser Promote Your Profession campaign, and he sighed. Perhaps he should have dealt with those. 

But it was too late for regrets, as once again, McHunt found himself back in his bedroom once more as the clock struck two... and the room grew preternaturally dark and cold.

The Ghost of Budgets Future

McHunt found himself outside in the snow. A shiny silver Tesla pulled up alongside him. A voice that seemed to come from behind him urged him to get into the front passenger seat.

As he did so, he looked at the driver: a middle-aged man, salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a blue shirt - no tie - and dark blue trousers.

A dark blue suit jacket was on the back seat, along with a laminated set of presentation slides and copy of the Times Money section, with rude doodles scrawled all over one journalist's byline. 'This idiot knows nothing about tax', one scribble read.

What do you call it when you go on a long walk looking for someone who screws over the poor but helps rich pensioners?

McHunt started to panic. His heart beat faster and faster and he reached for the door, but the locks were on.

The driver said nothing, but just stared at him. 

"I know who you are", McHunt wailed. "You're ... an ... IFA."

The man said nothing, but steered his Tesla towards a long line of people queuing at a bank.

"What's this?" McHunt said, but the driver simply pointed as the door swung open. McHunt got out and walked up and down the line.

There must have been hundreds of people staring anxiously at their bank balances on their phones. He overheard two women talking. "I hope I have some money left", she was saying. "I used to have a lot after my inheritance, but the adviser who was helping me was pushed out of business."

"It's all that additional regulation and fines", said the other woman. "I used to work in insurance and I saw how everything unravelled after the Edinburgh Reforms failed.

"They weren't put in place properly and the regulator could not cope with trying to help the city and trying to help the consumer at the same time. It was on Panorama."

The first woman pursed her lips. "I wish we still had financial advisers. The dashboard was a good idea until some policy whig in Eastminster decided to hijack it for all our financial guidance. I was left without anyone to help me."

We'd all been warning the Treasury for years that they needed to sort out the structure and organisation of the regulator.

"Yeah well if the government can't get the tech right no wonder all our savings have gotten lost", another man volunteered.

"Lost?" said another eavesdropper, who was wearing a tinfoil hat. "You mean the government has borrowed from us to keep the big banks in service."

McHunt turned to the driver, who was still sitting quietly in the car. "What is this? I never legislated for this!"

The driver beckoned him back into the car. Reluctantly, McHunt got in and the pair drove to another location. It was the NEC in Birmingham.

It was full of men and women sitting around in a circle while a Scottish man played "Kumbaya" on an electric guitar.

"What is this?" McHunt hissed through gritted teeth. The spirit pointed to a sign on the wall, which read, 'Former PFS member support group'.

Underneath was an honesty box full of food. 'Take what you need and give what you don't', another sign read. The signs were written on the backs of old CII membership certificates. 

I am not turning into another failed chancellor! I won't ignore the warnings of experienced professionals.

McHunt heard a voice speak up over the others. "I am glad to be here", she said. "It has been four years since I was able to practice as a financial planner, thanks to the government's so-called reforms.

"We'd all been warning the Treasury for years that they needed to sort out the structure and organisation of the regulator. All our warnings went unheeded.

"The government felt the regulator itself was too big to fail - and then it failed, taking all of us down with it and leaving millions of people without any trusted advisers."

"Aye, and the AI support systems have just locked people out of their savings for no seeming reason, with no ability for them to complain or appeal to a human being", said the man on the guitar. 

"It's all McHunt's fault", said a third.

McHunt glanced at his reflection of the NEC's doorway, and jumped in fright: he was morphing into all the ghosts of chancellors past, including ones who had only been around for a few weeks.

"No!" he screamed, yelling at the silent driver. "I am not turning into another failed chancellor! I won't ignore the warnings of experienced professionals."

He knelt before the Tesla and sobbed. "I know that it is truly better to give than to receive. From now I will keep the spirit of Christmas all through my Budgets and Autumn Statements.

"I will truly support small businesses - including advisers. I will make sure regulation is fair and proportionate and that the consumer is truly protected. Oh help me spirit."

And as McHunt cried into the folds of the adviser's Charles Trywhitt suit, he heard the morning bells chiming over Eastminster and saw the sun rising from behind the curtains. He was home, and he was in his own pjs.

Why sir, it's Christmas Day!

He ran to the window and threw up the sash. His intern was still outside, shivering in the snow. 

"You, youngster! What day is it?"

The intern looked up. "Why sir, it's Christmas Day."

"Then I haven't missed it! Huzzah!" And with that, McHunt danced around his room, once again terrifying the Number 10 cat who kept trying to seek refuge there from the (definitely no) parties next door. 

"I shall keep the spirit of Christmas alive all the year!" he pledged.

And with that, he ran outside, bumping into the minister for the department for work and pensions.

"Come here and let me whisper in your ear, if you please", said McHunt.

The woman looked shocked. "That much to implement a better pensions dashboard? Why McHunt!"

He laughed: "Not a farthing less. A great many back-payments are included in it, I assure you. Will you do me that favour?"

She looked back, stunned, as the merry man danced his way down the street, past the photographers and police officers freezing their cobblers off, I mean, standing on the freezing cobblestones. 

McHunt was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to the pensioners, who did not die, he was a second father.

He became as good a friend, as good a Treasurer, and as good a man, as the good old City knew.

simoney.kyriakou@ft.com