‘Can’t we just do a bit of a Salisbury job on Douglas Ross?’

MONDAY

THE PM has convened a special Scotland task-force. First item on the agenda is "The Douglas Ross problem". Silky Sunak can’t help himself and snorts that our Scottish leader looks like the chap who used to carry his bags at Oxford. “Where do we get these people,” he asks. Everyone nods in agreement. Dopey Williamson asks if we can’t just pull a Salisbury number on him by doing the old door handle trick and that he’s still got good Moscow contacts from his time at the FO.

Gollum Gove tells the idiot we’d have to be a lot more discreet than that as the Daily Mail would have a field-day if it was revealed we’d asked Putin to do it. “How about getting the Dutch special ops wallahs to slip him a herbal snider the next time he’s in London for one of those Spectator bacchanals,” he suggests.

The PM won’t hear of it, though and says we should try at all costs to avoid actually killing Ross. Instead, he says, it could be an opportunity. “I mean, um, the press chaps like to, um, portray me as some kind of posh Wurzel Gummidge. But if I were to get up there and do, um, lots of photo-ops with the oik it would make me look like I knew what I was doing.”

There might be something in this.

TUESDAY

WE’VE got another Thatcher problem that needs urgently dealt with. It seems that someone inadvertently left a vat of curry sauce outside her door in the crypt instead of the usual Rh-negative. The old bat flew into a rage; ate Igor the new lock-keeper and flew off in the direction of Westminster Bridge where there were two eviscerations; a beheading and three amputations.

We were able to cover it up by blaming it on the aftermath of the anti-vacc march earlier that day. Sleepy Hancock (who knows about this stuff) says she’s still a bit frisky in these early stages of being undead and Whitechapel’s been gentrified since the days we were able to snatch drunken Irish labourers at closing time. Sleepy suggests putting her in with Cumberland and Cromwell for a few years until she gets the hang of it.

WEDNESDAY

Trouble in the Channel. The French are threatening to blockade Jersey over post-Brexit fishing rights. Dopey wants to go all gung-ho and invade France “to show our fishing fleets we care about them”. He’s still smarting from that attempt he made at sending in the SAS to take the Rock of Gibraltar when the Spanish started getting uppity a few years back. Someone forgot to tell him about the monkeys and the platoon was out of action for months dealing with a rabies outbreak.

We’re all agreed that the best course of action is to send in a couple of gunboats and threaten to swamp the cheese market with counterfeit camembert. The PM sees an opportunity to recover from the soft furnishings fiasco. “Carrie, um, gets her ah, foundation garments from La Perla and she’s volunteered to jolly well cancel her £100k account with them.” That should do the trick.

THURSDAY

I’VE been dreading this day all week. Carrie’s odious "friend" Fr Stanislaus is conducting part two of his leadership course (for which his company Burn Baby Burn is on a 20k-a-week retainer). He’s a de-frocked Russian Orthodox priest who specialises in midnight fire-walks and sword-swallowing to build character. Poor Jonathon at the DWP and Phoebe at the DVLA are still in the Burns Unit at Chelsea & Westminster after the first one.

Carrie Symonds

More troublingly, this bearded cleric seems to exert a malevolent influence over Carrie who has begun taking Russian lessons. She’s also cast covetous eyes on a couple of rare Faberge Imperial Eggs coming up for auction at Sotheby’s which were gifted by Tsar Nicholas II to the Tsarina Alexandra. I fear we may have to let old Maggie loose again to be rid of this Russian.

FRIDAY

THE Channel Crisis deepens. Le Figaro has obtained records of late-night text messages from You Know Who to Brigitte Macron which are somewhat eye-watering. They’re threatening to publish them unless we withdraw the gunboats. Allegra at Transport thinks the messages are all perfectly innocent and indicate a spirt of post-Brexit détente. I demur and show her this one.

“Ma cherie, vous captivated moi at le Summit de G-sept. Vous havez les jambes de Helen de Troy et le derriere du Michel Platini. Peut-etre je can assistez-vous avec votre new patisserie venture. Le head du purchasing at le Harrod’s est mon ami. Permittez-moi to faire un introduction. Nous will always avez Paris. Oh revoir ma petit foie gras. Je suis sending vous un petit quelque chose de La Perla, que has only been porte le once.”