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.
Pyramid of Piffle 