On the blower to Macron and Merkel today, or Pepe le Frog and Irma Bunt as I like to call them. I made nice, and shared a very clever and sophisticated joke about escaping from the Stalag Luft III of Europe via the wooden horse of Brexit, not the Trojan Horse of the backstop. I don’t think they got the message.
The biting incident at No 10 drinkies yesterday has thrown up a bit of a poser. Was it Dominic Raab or Dominic Cummings? Hard to tell the difference: both Doms, both huge brainy foreheads, with mostly bone underneath. And both mad as hatters.
Have asked Priti to find out. She’s keen as mustard to get stuck into her new job at the Home Office. She tells me that if you thrust red hot meat skewers into a chap’s testicles and he doesn’t scream, it proves he’s a bit suspect.
I remember back at Eton we used to lash recidivist fags to a chair and toast their feet in front of the Library fire. We’ll try that on Cummings tomorrow and see how it works.
Spent much of the day sacking junior ministers or moving them sideways. Steve Baker got stroppy when I offered him a post cleaning the bogs at the Brexit shitpit. Threatened to bomb me from 30,000ft. Had to remind him he was only an engineer in the RAF, not an actual pilot.
Sometimes this Prime Minister lark is almost fun.
Pyramid of Piffle 