Had to sleep on the sofa last night after Carrie turfed me out for spilling half a bottle of Montrachet on her side of the bed. Have to get this key business sorted out PDQ.
My first challenge in office is a zombie apocalypse. I read in the comics that Hammond and Keir Starkers are milling around with the rest of the undead on the backbenches plotting my downfall.
I go to the window but there’s no sign of the wrinkly old corpse shuffling about with his army of vengeful zombies, so plenty of time for toast and marmalade and a little stiffener before lunch.
I said something naughty the other day, it appears, about roasting fags. Of course I didn’t mean bumboys. I have nothing but the greatest respect for chaps of an alternative disposition. Can I say that? No. I meant the youngsters we used to use as shoe polish and pillow fluffers at Eton.
I explained this to Cummings while we set fire to his feet: “Dom” I said. “As my Downing Street fag, you’re expected to kiss my arse, not the other thing. Now did you bite the housekeeper?”
But all he could do was cry “More! More!” and “Harder!” I’m beginning to think it was Raab after all.
Pyramid of Piffle 