After landing at London Stansted, my family and I had a smooth drive with our modest security detail of 12 cars to David Lammy’s cabin in Kent, England. Big Dave was there to welcome us.
“Welcome to Chevening, JD,” he said.
“Good to see you again,” I replied.
“Let me show you, Usha, and the kids around.”
I have to admit, the place felt a bit small and gloomy, but I kept that to myself. No need to offend anyone.
“What’s this room?” I asked.
Big Dave looked puzzled.
One of his advisers jumped in. “It’s the bedroom,” she said.
“That’s right,” Dave echoed. “It’s the bedroom.”
“Nice,” I said. Maybe the bed should’ve been a giveaway.
After a short rest, we headed downstairs. BD suggested we visit the private chapel.
“Fine by me,” I said. “Let’s do a quick 30-minute power prayer. But we should agree on the prayer agenda—don’t want to confuse the Almighty. Ready? One, two, three, pray.”
The next day began with a stroll around the garden, followed by high-level discussions.
“Let’s start with Gaza,” said Big Dave.
“Sure, you go first.”
“Well, the situation is terrible. What should we do?”
“No clue. The Donald wants to turn it into a Mediterranean resort.”
“Maybe later. How about we both say we’re horrified and promise more talks soon?”
“Sounds good,” I said. “Now, Ukraine. Would be nice if that Zelenskyy guy showed a little more gratitude for everything we’ve done.”
“Hmm. Maybe not the best starting point. Can we at least agree the war’s been awful and Putin needs to accept a ceasefire?”
“I’ll have to run that by the president.”
“Of course,” Big Dave nodded eagerly. “Well, that’s sorted. Where would the world be without us? Fancy some fishing on the lake?”
It was a great morning. Poor Dave just stood there cluelessly with his rod while my kids reeled in fish after fish.
“What am I doing wrong?” he groaned.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d arranged for frogmen to attach fish to my kids’ hooks. Can’t disappoint the little ones.
We squeezed in one last round of competitive prayer before it was time to leave.
“Good seeing you again, BD.”
“You too, JD.”
A few hours later, after a quick stop at the charming Hampton Court resort by the Thames—where the kids somehow got lost in the maze—our motorcade arrived at our cozy little manor in Dean, nestled in the Cotswolds. Waiting for us was our tour guide for the week: a rather odd, clingy guy named George Osborne.
Ozzy’s a strange one. Kept bragging about how he used to be chancellor and asking if I’d go on his podcast. Said he and David Cameron were behind austerity.
“Call me Mega,” he chuckled nervously. “Making England Great Again.”
Guess he’s fallen on hard times. Now he just arranges fancy holidays for people like me. Still, no point kicking a man when he’s down. Might as well humor him—he did sort out the rental.
“I’ve set up a small drinks reception,” he said. “Just a few Tory politicians eager to meet you.”
Personally, I couldn’t think of anything worse—wasting time with a bunch of has-beens who’ll be out of power for years. But duty calls. I’m doing God’s work.
Later that evening, I found myself cornered by some…A man named Robert Jenrick claimed he was the true leader of the Tory party. “Don’t you hate foreigners?” he said. “I wouldn’t want my daughters around bearded men from lesser cultures who show up here uninvited. No offense to anyone here, of course.”
“None taken.”
The next morning, I turned on the radio to the BBC—or as I call it, the British Broadcasting Communism. How do the British tolerate socialists dominating their airwaves? Just endless chatter about caring for foreigners. What’s wrong with a little harmless xenophobia? My annoyance was cut short by a phone call from a woman named Kemi Something.
“I’m the leader of the Tory party,” she insisted.
“What?”
“I’m the leader of the Tory party. Can we meet?”
“Sorry, busy. I’m off to the Daylesford Farm shop. You can’t find decent Monterey Jack cheese around here.” Click.
Then a policeman showed up. I’d been caught fishing without a license and could’ve faced a £2,500 fine, but he let me off with a warning. That’s the last time I trust Big Dave to plan an outing for me. As the police car drove away, I spotted a group of women waving signs with my picture. It felt nice to be wanted—the Brits really made me feel welcome. Ozzy told me they were chanting: “We love you, JD Vance / Our lives thou dost enhance.”
After that, I had a late breakfast meeting with Nigel Farage. Not the guy you want to be near first thing in the morning—his breath smelled like cigarettes and alcohol. He seemed shocked I’d chosen the most dangerous country on Earth for my vacation. I suggested we start with a quick 45-minute prayer session to ask God for guidance on rounding up and deporting foreigners.
Soon it was time to leave for Scotland. Just had to check in with the president before his meeting with Vladimir Putin.
“How’s it going, Mr. President?” I asked.
“All good, JD. Packed and ready for the trip to Russia.”
“Don’t you mean Alaska?”
“That’s what I said. Russia is Alaska.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Try to keep up—there’s a Nobel Peace Prize at stake.”
What could possibly go wrong?
FAQS
Here’s a list of FAQs about *My Summer Vacation* by JD Vance as humorously rewritten by John Crace:
### **General Questions**
**Q: What is *My Summer Vacation* about?**
A: It’s a satirical rewrite of JD Vance’s memoir, mocking his political persona and contradictions, written in a playful, exaggerated style.
**Q: Who is John Crace?**
A: A British journalist known for his witty “digested read” columns, where he humorously summarizes books and political events.
**Q: Is this an actual book by JD Vance?**
A: No—it’s a parody by Crace, poking fun at Vance’s self-seriousness and career pivot from memoirist to politician.
### **Tone & Style**
**Q: How does Crace’s version differ from Vance’s original?**
A: Crace exaggerates Vance’s folksy, self-mythologizing tone, turning it into absurd, over-the-top humor.
**Q: Is this meant to be mean-spirited?**
A: Not really—it’s sharp satire, highlighting Vance’s contradictions with cheeky exaggeration.
### **Content & Themes**
**Q: What’s the funniest part of the parody?**
A: Likely the way Crace frames Vance’s life as a series of overdramatized, pseudo-heroic escapades.
**Q: Does it critique Vance’s politics?**
A: Indirectly—it mocks his shifting personas rather than specific policies.
### **Audience & Reception**
**Q: Who would enjoy this?**
A: Fans of political satire, especially those familiar with Vance’s rise or Crace’s work.
**Q: Would Vance himself find this funny?**
A: Unlikely—but that’s the point.
### **Practical Questions**
**Q: Where can I read it?**
A: Look for Crace’s *Guardian* columns or his *Digested Read* book compilations.
