Last weekend, residents of our east London thoroughfare were told to remove their vehicles, clearing the route for an exceptionally wide and potentially hazardous load. Perhaps your mum, who I believe lives locally, had ordered a new pair of pants from Littlewoods?

Rising on Tuesday to a thunderous ding dong, I saw “Free Tibet” protesters fleeing west while nervous Chinese students waved identical banners reading “Welcome” and, in much smaller letters, “Made in China”.

Dispersing demonstrators, police ensured the welcomers were in place as the object of their obligations began its progress past my window. It was, at some 100 feet across, and mounted on tiny casters, nothing less than a massive Chinese arse.

With the silent authority of a vast totalitarian slug, the massive Chinese arse rolled over the buckling tarmac, shiny in the sun, with all farts coming out of it, speeding its gaseous progress towards Westminster.

Having flown in from China, suspended between four Chinooks, the massive Chinese arse sat down discreetly at RAF Scampton, where it became the subject of an enthusiastic Lincolnshire cargo cult, and was then escorted into London by a fleet of police motorcyclists, clothes pegs discreetly over their noses against the arse’s flatulent mechanism.

A human rights protester positioned himself before the massive Chinese arse, raising defiant fists. But two unremitting meat mountains, enormous Chinese buttocks, rolled unsentimentally over him, spitting him out behind, winded and battered.

“Did you see that?” I asked a policewoman, “A massive Chinese arse is crushing legitimate criticism.” “Calm down Mr Lee,” said an undercover officer, recognising me from my multiple Bafta- and British Comedy Award-winning TV shows. “Perhaps a ticket to tonight’s ceremonial massive Chinese arse banquet at Buckingham Palace would buy your silence?”

I told him I could not be bought, having turned down an advert for Sharwood’s Spicy Szechuan Stir Fry Melts on ethical grounds only last week. “There will be braised red cabbage, cocotte potatoes, and timbale of celeriac,” he bartered, waving an embossed menu of tainted possibility.

And so it was that, for truth and timbale of celeriac, I was seated at Buckingham Palace, with the massive Chinese arse and his confidants, a host of delighted business people, and some compromised dignitaries: Mark Carney of the Bank of England, George “Pencils” Osborne, David Cameron and, Christ-like in his accommodations, Justin Welby, Archbishop of Canterbury, supine among the sinners, the non-tax-gatherers, and the non-dom non-tax payers.

The Queen wore a white banquet dress, embroidered with beads by her dressmaker Angela Kelly, and a pair of old lady’s knickers, the label sewn in by C&A. It was the first time she had worn the dress. The Duchess of Cambridge wore a bespoke red gown by Jenny Packham, and a Chinese Rocks tiara, on loan from George “Pencils” Osborne. It was the first time she had worn the gown.

Instead of wearing a booby-trapped papier-mache head of the Dalai Lama, as was feared, Jeremy Corbyn wore a black jacket, white tie, white shirt, black shoes and black trousers, with black socks and white pants from Marks and Spencers. It was the 75th time he had worn the pants.

I saw the Queen’s eyes, as she licked the massive Chinese arse, meeting Jeremy Corbyn’s eyes

On the subject of clothes, PEN Award-winning writer and academic Ilham Tohti appears to be wearing a blue anorak and a white T-shirt in the picture I found of him, but who knows what he is wearing now, as he is serving life imprisonment in a Chinese jail, as I would be if I wrote this piece there, even though it is only a silly thing about a massive Chinese arse.

Still, no time to worry about that now. The timbale of celeriac smelt delicious when I could catch a whiff of it, wafting in from the kitchen, through the low-hanging cloud of the massive Chinese arse’s effulgent flatulence. And anyway, dinner was served.

Fillet of west coast turbot with lobster mousse, roasted loin of Balmoral venison in a Madeira and truffle sauce, braised red cabbage, cocotte potatoes, and timbale of celeriac. To follow, and in celebration of the prime minister’s heroic rejection of the sugar tax, délice of dark chocolate, mango and lime. And 25 almonds, some Space Dust, and a juicy red apple for George “Pencils” Osborne, who was still on his diet.

After dessert came the part of the evening the diplomats had dreaded most. They knew the assembled worthies were required to venerate the massive Chinese arse, but even the most accomplished translator had been unable to ascertain whether the Chinese government’s instructions meant the massive Chinese arse was to be licked, or to be kissed.

Archbishop Justin Welby officiated, the dignitaries processing toward the massive Chinese arse, in a sick pantomime of the communion. Some – David Cameron, Mark Carney, and the Duchess of Cambridge – chose to kiss the massive Chinese arse. Others – Prince William, Prince Andrew and the Queen – elected to lick it.

From where I was sitting I saw the Queen’s eyes, as she licked the massive Chinese arse, meeting Jeremy Corbyn’s eyes. It seemed to me they shared an intimate moment, as she communicated to him the terrible bondage of duty, perhaps envying the rebellious leader of the opposition, and her own absent firstborn son, their uncompromised freedom, perhaps asking for understanding. And I like to think that it was in solidarity with the quietly dignified Queen that Jeremy Corbyn too then leaned forward to lick the massive Chinese arse himself.

The arse-licking and arse-kissing done, the band struck up the James Bond theme Nobody Does It Better and George Osborne took centre stage. Testing the opening with his usual pencil, he rolled up his shirt sleeve, James Herriot-style, and began his diplomatic negotiations, pushing through the half-digested fillet of west coast turbot with lobster mousse, the semi-dissolved roasted loin of Balmoral venison in a Madeira and truffle sauce, the broken-down braised red cabbage, the condensing cocotte potatoes, the disintegrating timbale of celeriac and the dissipating délice of dark chocolate, mango and lime. And finally the chancellor pulled out a plum! “What a good boy am I!” he cried, holding up the filthy fruit, to the applause of all. “This plum is worth £30 billion.”

The week dragged on. Unfortunately the massive Chinese arse was unable to find time to see Ai Weiwei at the Academy, the capital’s most important cultural event. But David Cameron did manage to take it to his local, The Cock and Pig, in Chipping Norton, where it enjoyed fish and beer, and was then forgotten, as the prime minister drove off, leaving it in a toilet.

A Room With a Stew is at Leicester Square theatre, London WC2 until 8 Jan. Stewart Lee is the curator of next year’s All Tomorrow’s Parties festival, at Prestatyn Pontins, 15-17 April 2016