In Competition No. 3333 you were invited to submit a short story that features Donald Trump or another politician of your choice in a well-known fictional landscape.

Joan Didion once observed that Ronald Reagan was the American politician to most fully embrace his own fictionality, making up stories in which he played the starring role. Didion put this down to ‘his tendency to see the presidency as a script waiting to be solved’. Needless to say, Reagan didn’t play a starring role in the entry; a medium-sized but impressive postbag was dominated by Donald Trump and Nigel Farage.

Competitors who shone included Sue Pickard, Nicholas Hodgson and Nigel Bennetton. The prize winners, printed below, earn £30.

As Christian plodded through the Slough of Despond he came upon a great multitude, all wearing red caps bearing the legend MAGA, so that he took them to be mages or wise men. ‘Witch-hunt’ they chanted, and ‘stop the steal’, which seemed admirable, especially the invocation of the seventh commandment. In discourse with two of them, whose names were Redneck and Thick-as-mince, he enquired why they chanted not against adultery or covetousness? They told him that these were not at all discouraged by their leader, who stood upon a platform, his face shining orange as the flames of hell, talking very loudly about himself. Christian learned that his name was Trump, and so he was greatly afraid that we were approaching the Last Trump and that he was insufficiently prepared. When they declared that Trump would soon be victorious, Christian turned sadly, and departed to seek again the Giant Despair.

Brian Murdoch

The Donald lay in the shadow, almost in darkness. She wondered what he was thinking. Was he in some kind of dream? That was it, he was in a dream. He and his loins, they were sleeping, they were in a kind of nothingness. It was magnificent, was it not? She saw the moon, sharp and hard, through the roof of the golf-kart. In the distance she could hear the colliery, the industrial Midlands at work. And he was here, so still, so very still, beside her, his golden hair almost luminous, a great, somehow instinctive quiff. ‘Big tech,’ murmured the Donald. ‘Big tech, Lady C. They want to totally, totally destroy us. Take Sir Clifford. He wants to indoctrinate us, so stupid, what a stiff.’

How queer it was, her obedience to him. How queer! And was he not exquisite? Yes, she would be First Lady! Yes!

Bill Greenwell

Tiring of his diet of cockroaches and millipedes, Nigel noticed a small, white rabbit. ‘Will I be eating that next?’ he wondered.

But the rabbit hurried past and disappeared down a hole.

Nigel followed. ‘At least the rabbit’s white,’ he thought, reassuringly.

Down, down he went, falling even further than he had in the polls.

‘Who are you?’ asked the caterpillar.

‘I’m a celebrity…’

‘How do you know?’

Nigel found, for some reason, he’d shrunk to three inches. ‘I’m not sure anymore. I just want someone to get me out of here!’

‘You’re looking for the exit?’

‘Brexit? Let’s dance to that!’

‘The Lobster Quadrille,’ cried the Mock Turtle, singing between sobs:

‘Will you walk a little faster? the lobster-catcher cried,

There is another shore, you know, upon the other side,

The farther off from England, the nearer is to  France

Will you, won’t you… come and join the dance…?’

Sylvia Fairley

One winter’s evening, I returned from my rounds to discover a striking, brown-haired woman sitting opposite Holmes.

‘Join us,’ said Sherlock. ‘Melania has just arrived. From her sharp facial features and heavily accented English, I deduce she’s central European, probably Slovenian, and has spent time in America.’

‘Indeed,’ said Melania. ‘And my husband, Donald, is a wealthy, older gentleman, a politician. I come about his lost election.’

‘Pray elucidate,’ said Holmes.

‘In Georgia and Arizona, his poll was weak.’

‘And how did this weakness affect him?’

Blushing, Melania continued: ‘In Georgia he attempted, unsuccessfully, to massage the poll.’

‘Madam,’ said Holmes. ‘I’m a detective, not a magician. I cannot overturn lost elections.’

Confused, Melania said: ‘But I’m here to consult Dr Watson.’

The penny dropped, and much to Melania’s chagrin, I and Holmes guffawed.

From my gladstone bag, I withdrew a bottle of blue pills. ‘For Donald’s lost election,’ I said.

Paul A. Freeman

Nearing the end of the Yellow Brick Road, Liz Truss remembered the friends she had lost on her journey. There was Kwasi Kwar-Tin, an animatron she abandoned when he got rusty; Suella BraverLion, who roared at migrant Munchkins but fled when they fought back; and Rishi Scarecrow, who blew away in the wind, as he was only made of straw.

Liz had even battled flying monkeys sent by the Wicked Witch of Debt, to thwart Liz’s quest to reform the market.

Finally, she reached the Economy Wizard’s lair and peeked behind the curtain, to find Andrew Bailey behind the controls. Liz was horrified – the market was all smoke and mirrors! Yet Andrew was cunning and promised she could still reform if she clicked her heels thrice and said: ‘There’s no tax at home.’ Liz obeyed and was magicked back to Norfolk, her premiership of Emerald City over like a dream.

Lauren Mappledoram

No. 3336: Genesis

You are invited to supply the story behind the composition of a famous poem. Please email entries of up to 150 words to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 7 February.