HOW HAD it come to this, Gordon wondered, as he stood alone on the balcony of his Tokyo hotel. It was 32C. He could feel the sweat under his armpits as the full truth hit him. He was no longer a player for New Labour. The transfer had been done. The contract signed. It was a done deal. £25 million? Real Labor were getting a bargain.

The hysteria at the airport had been extraordinary. The last time he had been here had been a year ago at the G8 tournament. He had performed well against Argentina and plucky little Denmark, but they had met their match when taking on Brazil.

Yet all that was forgotten now, what with the screaming teenage girls, the flashing bulbs of a thousand cameras. But it was the giant billboards of his face, topped by tousled jet-black hair, that finally did it for him. Why, there were even No 11 shirts on sale.

This was something he was going to have to get used to. He managed to sign only five autographs before being bundled into a waiting Mercedes. If this was Japan, what would Spain be like?

It had all gone wrong when Tony had put the boot in after a Cabinet meeting. After that, he had been left out of crucial squad decisions. Sitting on the bench while the invasion of Iraq began. And then the PR campaign had started. Rumours were set in motion that it had, in fact, been the hard man at the back — Johnny Prescott — who had thrown a punch at him. Yes, John had a reputation. He had once stormed out of a European clash, and had also famously run into the crowd and thrown a punch at a foul-mouthed fan. But the truth was, Tony had done it.

Yet there were still two years left on his contract, signed at the Granita restaurant in Islington in the early Nineties. “Look Gordon. After six years as PM, you know, I shall be wanting to spend more time with Cherie. We will be in Europe. The Lords will be fully democratic. We shall have reformed the health service. Crime will be down. And the Tories, well, they will be a thing of the past,” Tony had claimed over his plate of blue polenta fingers.Well, not quite. They had qualified for Europe every year since then, but they had lost a lot of domestic trophies. And it was Tony, not him, who kept putting it off. They had passed the convergence criteria. There wouldn’t be any fudge. What we need is stability. What more did he want? How come equality of opportunity was OK for everyone else, but not for him? Had the time not come for him finally to realise his own potential?

Gordon left the balcony and entered the bedroom. He glanced at the two sarongs lying on the bed, and mused: was one of them for him? In former years he would have been taken aback by such clothing, but now he was more in touch with his feminine side.

He remembered being quizzed on the radio about his sexual orientation, but now he was comfortable with that kind of stuff. Yes, he could wear a sarong now. He could even wear the wife’s underwear. Who would ever know?

“Gordon Brown, texture like sun . . .”

It was Sarah in the shower, singing the old Stranglers classic. “Never a frown, with Gordon Brown . . .”

From anybody else it wouldn’t have been funny. But from Sarah, well, she had put a smile on his face. Sure, the old girl couldn’t sing, no matter what the record sales told her. But she would settle easily into the new lifestyle — the hacienda, the topless sunbathing, the shoe shops.

As for him, well, worse transfers had happened: Stevie Byers, Frank “Dobbo” Dobson, whose failed move to London was a permanent reminder to all of them. Mo, carted off to some Irish backwater. Even his old mucker Pete Mandelson, serving his time in a relegation league of his own.

He allowed himself a smile. Yes, Spain would be good for both of them. Now at last he could have some euros in his pocket. Now at last he would be at the heart of the European action.