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.
Pyramid of Piffle 