Pyramid of Piffle

I have been meaning to get back to my diary all week but a tremendous torrent of tawdry political nonsense has prevented it. I have been forced to stand for hours on end pretending to answer questions from semi-literate yobs on the backbenches, and even a few from the other side. And for what? The bastards voted against me anyway.

This whole Parliamentary rigmarole is so much stinking fish, as far as I’m concerned. David Cameron, a mincing swot, said we had to be seen to do our job: Wrong Wrong Wrong! Prime Ministers should be obeyed. It’s got sod all to do with being seen.

I send Jacob out the next day to deploy his formidable intellect and knowledge of obscure Victorian precedents to stop the rot in its tracks. “Fret not!” he replies. “I shall deploy my innate podsnappery to acutely pointed effect!” I rush off to look the word up, while Jacob stretches himself out on the front bench and goes to sleep.

Meanwhile the papers are all pointing out that losing the first four votes of one’s Premiership is a record-breaking run of disaster. Never mind. I arrange to make a speech in front of some uniformed police cadets in Yorkshire to allay fears that I’m trying to behave like a tinpot dictator.

Everything goes swimmingly well until one of them has the gall to faint during my pungent peroration. Also, nobody seems to get my deliberate joke in pretending to forget the words of the police caution.

So let me repeat what Cummings told all the MPs he just sacked for voting against him – I mean me. “You had better not say anything but if you do, you will be taken down and used in evidence. What part of that don’t you understand? The ‘fuck’ or the ‘off’?”

The traditional way to start a coup is to shell the presidential palace from a gunboat, and take over the TV station. Since the Navy has been reduced to one aircraft carrier (with no aircraft) and a miniature submarine called “HMS Boaty McBoatface” I have to make do with Jacob Rees-Mogg.

I send Jakers to Balmoral by TARDIS to inform Her Maj of Her Maj’s duty to shut down Parliament. This is an ultra-normal request, which allows Parliament to do its job of remaining supine while I get on with Brexit. When he gets back he refuses to tell me what the Queen actually said on the grounds that someone in 1654 “hath no eyes to see nor tongue to speak”. But it hath all bene donne and dusted, so OK, thanks Jacob and back in your box.

Of course all the gibbering lefties, mincing moderates and whining wankers of Westminster are up in arms about it and clustering around the leaders of the Walking Dead – Hammond and a freshly risen John Major who was recently unearthed from an unkempt grave behind the Channel Four building in Horseferry Road.

I make what I considered to be a perfectly apt joke about them all behaving like a bunch of schoolgirls but Cummings takes me literally and begins sacking all female staff in Whitehall under the age of 25. At least, he says he’s sacking them, but Saj came round demanding to know where Sonia Khan had got to, not seen anything from Human Resources, just a very large policeman with a gun frog-marching his media advisor towards an enormous bonfire outside Cummings’ office.

I ask Dominic what’s going on. He mumbles something indistinct and then brightens up. “Everything will be fine, Prime Minister” he says. “When The Stars are Right.”

Terrific start to the day, as I invite Prue Leith, the wrinkly chef from Bake-Off, for breakfast. I was hoping to get a few tips about cooking my supply of free sausage and mash dinners from Iceland, but instead she warbles on and on about hospital meals and how they should be more appealing to the sick.

Later we go along for a photo-op at a hospital where I serve some appalling, smelly, decaying patient a plate of what passes for luncheon in the NHS. Prue seems to think she’s made her point, but as I explain to her later over a glass of Pouilly Fuisse and a plate of steak and kidney pud, if you give sick people nice food they have no incentive to get better.

Carrie tells me the whole of the Amazon jungle is on fire, poor little Indians running around with burned feet, and marmosets roasting in their trees, etc. I make soothing nonsense noises to the camera but unfortunately my trade minister Conor Burns is on site in Brazil and greasing up to Jar Balsawood, their current Fuhrer. It seems Jar, whom I originally took to be a Star Wars character, and not in a good way, has been encouraging everybody to burn as many trees as possible and blame Oxfam.

“We look forward to a long and happy blah-di-blah” says Conor. “Send us all your wood! Send us your charcoal! Send us your beef and bananas! We’ll buy the lot.” Carrie gives me a filthy look.

Fortunately the G7 is coming up, where my glory can radiate upon the global stage. Cometh the hour, cometh the man! Or something like that.

When in doubt, bring back the birch: or as the Romans put it, “qui bene amat, bene castigat” – if you love someone, give them a thrashing. I try to explain this to Carrie but she gets the completely the wrong end of the stick, so it is sofa time again.

Anyway my perfectly sensible idea is to make sure wicked criminals stay in prison at a cost to the state of £27,264 per person per year, or somewhat more than the average wage, I’m told. Which must be wrong, since most MPs can’t manage on £74,000. Make them serve the sentence they are given! Priti agrees, and has some interesting ideas about bringing back the treadmill, rock-breaking, and ball-busting. Whatever that means.

In an effort to placate Carrie over the wretched misunderstanding regarding my rather erudite little joke about flagellation, I suggest a weekend in Tuscany might be just the thing to restore our spirits, rejuvenate the juices and put some spice back into our you-know-what.

Little Dominic blows a gasket and forbids it. No hols, no weekend hanky-panky, not even a day trip to St Albans. Berserk, he closes Kings Cross station and sends round a memo to all Downing St staff about “going to the mattresses” until the election. The one we’re not having. Allegedly.

It’s all very well for him. He doesn’t do holidays. He just sits in a bunker his parents built to house him on their farm in Durham and reads Schopenhauer and Hayek until the full moon has passed. His wife stays up the road, haunting the family castle, Chillblains. Northern Gothic, I think is the phrase.

In vengeance over the holiday ban, I telephone the Guardian and tell them Cummings gets twenty big ones a year from the EU for doing nothing at all on the farm. That’s Euro Gothic, that is.

I sent Dominic Raab to America to get him away from the Anklegate trouble, reminding him to pack an atlas and make sure he’s pointing in the right direction.

His meeting with Vice President Pence went off very well. Soapy Mike is an odd chap, very big on religion and worried sick about being caught contemplating hanky-panky. He insisted on standing at least five feet away from Dominic at all times which put a bit of a damper on proceedings. Although it certainly saves one’s ankles from being savaged.

Anyway, the other Mike, Mike Pompeo, says there’ll be no problem doing a trade deal. He’s head of the CIA so he already knows what our plans are. I certainly don’t.

Little Cummings has always had a bit of a ravaged look about him but since he’s taken to wearing shades he reminds me of an undernourished version of Michael Keaton in “American Assassin.” More bats than Batman.

His latest wheeze involves my losing a “No Confidence” vote in the House of Commons and refusing to resign; then calling a General Election for after Brexit day, and running the clock down so we leave the EU by default: the idea is that if nobody’s in charge then nobody can prevent it.

I inform him that I’m not nobody, and I’m not planning on losing any votes. Cummings sighs and points out that it’s been done before, by King Charles I, so there’s precedent for it. There’s precedent for having your head chopped off, as well.

I receive a letter from that dreadful old Commissar, John McDonnel, the Shadow Chancellor and MP for the Finland Station. He says Sajid Javid, my Chancellor, is a brazen bounder who was responsible for the global recession of 2008 all by himself, while helping sound chaps (including some very good friends of mine, I might add) get a decent return on their money without Gordon “the Gurner” Brown taking half of it to spaff on hospitals, old people, that sort of bollocks.

Normally I’d take no notice but what if it’s true? The Saj, as he insists on being called, is a rum sort at the best of times. His idea of giving a girl a good time is to read the trial scene from The Fountainhead to her: one of those strange religious tracts written by Ayn Rand. Indeed, his wife only agreed to marry him if he swore he would never read it to her again. So apparently he reads it to himself, all alone, right through Ramadan.

I shall have to keep a weather eye on the Saj and make sure he knows his place, which is basically to shut up and smile whenever I promise to spend a lot of money.

Which my old chum Barbara Windsor wants me to do. “Darling Boris” she said, out of Carrie’s earshot – “Darling Boris, I’m going a little gaga you know, so you have to help me out by spending lots of lovely money on health services for people with Alzheimer’s.”

Well of course I promise I will, in fact, I resolve immediately to spaff several billion pounds on twenty hospitals and a whole lot more on the geriatric wing of the Tory party, which is basically the whole caboodle.

Just hope I can do it without gurning.

I woke up Friday morning to discover that we’d lost a bye-election in the Brecon Beacons. I visited Wales only the other day and this is how the snivelling leek-faced turds repay me! My majority has shrunk like a todger confronted with a vengeful wife.

What is especially galling is that nobody lives in the Brecon Beacons. I always understood it was a barren wilderness across which our splendid paratroopers “yomp” in basic training, occasionally throwing the weakest behind to be consumed by ravenous wolves. Or the local peasantry, whichever is worse. Now I discover there’s an MP.

It used to be a perfectly sound Conservative chap whose name I can’t remember. He made a completely understandable ballsup of his Parliamentary expenses over some photographs of himself, and then told a minor fibette to those insufferable clerks at the House of Commons Standards thing. Bye-election ensues. His loyal association insists he stands again, good egg, misunderstood, mistake anybody could make, etc. Cocks it up and now I have a majority of one!

I must find out which one it is, and take her out for dinner.

In celebratory mood, I bought a clock today to count the days until Brexit. It’s one of those diabolically clever digital things and set me back £500. I asked the office about claiming it back on expenses but they were very discouraging, so I simply offered to pay for it myself. Which I thought very generous of me.

Iceland have sent me a hamper of frozen food as a kind of Nordic peace offering: sausages and mash. My favourite! I make a memo to ask my security chiefs to find out who has been telling Reykjavik my eating habits. If they know about my midnight munchies, what else do they know?

Anklegate continues to haunt me. I ask Raab to pop in for a special meeting to discuss it which I rather waggishly call a “War Cabinet”. Just a few sound chaps, Gove, Raab, Saj, Foxy Coxy and that fellow I put in charge of Brexit whose name nobody can remember. No women, just pals. Make a clean breast of it, put it behind us, stiff whisky and say no more.

Raab comes in clutching a pile of atlases with all the EU members outlined in yellow marker pen, and arrows pointing at the English Channel, like dear old Dad’s Army. I start humming “Who Do You Think You Are Kidding Mrs Merkel” which I thought was very witty but the Cabinet Secretary did that coughing thing that means I should shut up. This makes Raab even more nervous and he drops his homework and we all have to get down on our hands and knees to pick it up again.

I take the opportunity to eyeball Raab and say “Now look me in the eye, Dominic. On your honour as a Jesus man, did you bite the housekeeper?” But all he does is whimper something about nobody telling him the Cinque Ports aren’t real ports.

Later, Carrie tears a strip off me for spending £500 “of our money” – as she puts it – on the Countdown Clock. I try to deflect her by showing her the lovely meals from Iceland. She throws the frozen sausages back in my face and says they are from some low-class supermarket, and anyway, the sausages are Irish.

Glad I’ve got a supply in before Brexit then.

Unbelievably, my excursion to Northern Ireland hasn’t had quite the effect I intended. Instead I learn that millions of American citizens, descended as they are from bog-trotting stock, are objecting to my plan to have no hard border. Someone’s told them I’m only pretending and that the real plan is to have a concrete wall with machine gun posts and public executions, just like Donald’s one in Mexico.

Whoever let the cat out of the bag damn’ well ought to be ashamed of himself. Still, at least there’s time for a pint at the Lord Moon, the ‘Spoons boozer just round the corner from the office.

Bad mistake! I am immediately cornered by an appalling fellow with the sort of cross-hatched, florid complexion that only many years of hard living can manufacture. He bores on interminably about Brexit, about his man-love for Rees-Mogg, about a meeting he claims to have had with Andrea Leadsom, and so on ad infinitum.

I tell him if he won’t leave me alone I’ll call the police, and point out that I know many of them personally, from the fracas in the flat the other week. Only later do I realise that the man I mistook for a drunken tramp was in fact the gaffer, the same chap who bunged us £200,000 for the Brexit campaign. Crikey!

Little Cummings is in the news. It seems he wrote some awful bloody tosh in The Sextator about Tory MPs not giving a rat’s arse for the NHS or poor people. Everybody’s running around like decapitated poultry pretending they’ve never heard of such a thing, shocked to the core, beyond all imagining, et cetera.

Now I’ll have to explain what the NHS is to my ministers. All over again.

A decent lamb chop from a little fluffy Welsh lamb is a pulsating pinnacle of gastronomic paradise. Only twenty-five quid a kilo from Sainsbury’s, so easily affordable by hard-working families the length and breadth of Belgravia.

Which is why I’m surprised – nay, shocked – positively discombobulated to hear that the ungrateful peasants are preparing to block all the roads out of Wales in order to make it even more difficult for them to sell the lamb than I’m already planning to do with Brexit. Talk about shooting yourself in the nose to spite your betters!

The Irish Prime Minister flees from the border, pursued by the DUP

Scotland yesterday, Wales this morning, so I might as well round it off by calling the Irish Teapot, Leo Varadkar. I try out a few jocular remarks in Hindi, but they are met with a grim silence.

Instead I am treated to a long and meandering rant about how my policy on Brexit spells the end of everything.

I promise him that we have no intention of closing the border with Ireland: everything will be done on a computer by Lizzie Truss who is much better at that sort of thing than I am.

Besides my laptop hasn’t been working properly since Carrie and I were tussling over it the other week.