Off to Scotland today to visit our stupendous nuclear submarines at Faslane. These are the chaps who will start World War Three if I so much as sneeze in the direction of “the button”. It is an awesome responsibility and not one to be taken lightly.

I made what I thought was a rather good joke about pointing them at Brussels, but nobody laughed.

Finally move into our Downing Street flat today, having acquired Carrie a key. We are buying new furniture as Carrie says the wine stains, fag burns and deep gouges from kitchen utensils hurled in anger won’t do. Many of you won’t know that ever since “I’m a straight kind of guy” Tony realised next door’s flat was bigger, the PM has bunked down in the Chancellor’s place and the Chancellor at Number 10.

Totally, arse-numbingly knackered, to be honest. Everybody seems to want me to set up meetings with the Germans, French, Irish and what-have-you. “Tell ’em to ficken ze offen” I said, “And take the backstop with them.” Which I thought was rather witty.

They’ll come round in the end. See if they don’t!

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.

Off to Manchester today for my big speech about spaffing billions of pounds on saving the Soul of the North. Thing is, there are dozens of sound chaps up there just itching for some encouragement from Government which would enable them to rejuvenate their businesses and donate more to our great party’s election war chest.

My plan is to build a high speed rail link between Manchester and Leeds which will unite East and West in a smiling ocean of warmth and bonhomie, although apparently there are some issues about the timetable to sort out first.

Meanwhile Nadine Dorries has emerged from Liverpool’s primordial slime to become my junior health minister. Jacob says she’s very clear and straightforward about abortion. Great! I had to jump through all sorts of hoops over that little business with Petsy, and anything to make it easier for a chap to get it done on the QT with no comeback from the Press gets my vote.

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.

Gosh! Crikey! Bloody hell! Here we are.

Parls today a total shambles, lot of insolent questions from the Celtic fringe, no time for pre-prandials or post-prandials for that matter.

Carrie wants the key to the back door but the spooks say it’s out of the question. Who are they working for anyway? Also, have to have a word with Marina about bringing the kids round in the middle of Cabinet.

I am determined to govern for the whole country, or at least, the country around Uxbridge, which is very fine country indeed once you get out on the M40 and away from the mud huts. Otherwise, as the poet said, “Shitamus per ardua in shitholes” by which motto I have always been guided.

Drinkies with the staff, v. friendly except when Dominic bit the housekeeper after she offered him a shortbread biccy. Apparently mistook her for Nicky Morgan.

Bit of a TFB, Dom, come to think of it. Gove’s letter of recommendation was very strong, though. Must be good for something, apart from biting one’s ministers.