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.
Pyramid of Piffle 