THE PM’s new dietary regime is causing angst and distress in Downing Street. Monty Montague, our new low-carbon adviser, calls me. “You’ve got good contacts at Social Services, Rupert. I really think we might need to call them in: I’m exceedingly concerned about the PM.”

Carrie has insisted on a new Gurkha military diet for Boris and he’s been the very picture of misery. Seems the catalyst was the grand a week he was spending on fast food. One evening in March the Deliveroo and JustEat motorbikes were backed up round the corner and a rather unseemly fracas erupted between both sets of drivers in a fast food turf war.

So it’s been nutribullet smoothies with stuff like baby spinach and there’s more fruit around the place than the Man from Delmonte’s kitchen. Even the sausage rolls are vegan, which I think might actually be illegal.

After 30 days of this most people are expected to be healthier with good physical and mental health outcomes. But not the PM. He’s become moody, irascible and his hair is beginning to thin. His sleep patterns have been broken and the cabsec says he’s become depressed, tetchy and demotivated. “His pallor is deathly,” says Monty.


WE’VE hatched a plan with the local McDonald’s manager who turns out to be a Chelsea fan. In return for a pair of Champions League final tickets he’s promised personally to make a 6am drop of a Big Mac cheeseburger every morning which will be concealed in a Whole Foods bag. The signal that the coast is clear for the pick-up is when the neon-lit McDonald’s sign is switched on and off three times in quick succession. Then I nip out quickly; grab the merch and leave it outside the basement toilet for a grateful PM.


TODAY is Dominic Cummings day and we’re all gathered round the big screen in the basement. “Dopey” Williamson can’t understand why we’re all chucking ham and pineapple pizza slices at the television. “He was always very nice to me and let me bring in my train set and Kerplunk when we were having meetings about the Covid recovery if I agreed to sit quietly at the back.”

Meanwhile, Hancock and his team are walking around us all like exam invigilators looking for any tell-tale signs of smirking as Cummings lets loose. To be perfectly frank, I rather think Dom has missed a trick here. We all know Hancock would have shoved his granny off the Titanic for a place in the rescue boat, but if Cummings had seen the early stuff about containing the virus he could have brought the entire house down.

This involved drawing a line in the map above Birmingham and sending in the army to enforce a curfew for three months so that nothing and no one would get in or out the towns and cities. Everyone who looked over 60 would be rounded up and sent to open-air detention centres or airlifted to Scotland’s Western Isles and other remote archipelagos. This was until it was pointed out that everyone up north over 30 looks like they’re 60 and we’d basically be depopulating the place.


PRITI Patel is in the building with her two pet Carpathian mastiffs, Slaughter and Maim. Carrie has hated her after they ate her twin Slovenian cockapoos. The PM though, has always refused to sack her owing to “that night at the, um Spectator Garden Party, when we, um played Spin the Bottle in our, um underpants”.

There’s a lot of banging and shouting and she can be heard saying: “Why don’t we just get the SAS to take him out? Or get that pair of Russian painters and decorators to do his door handles?”


CARRIE’S Woke Wedding invites are causing a bit of a stir with the Daily Mail who seem to be upset that Drew Paul has been appointed Master of Ceremonies. I fear though, that the real story is somewhat more sinister.

She wants Father Stanislaus to do the ceremony which is to be a mixture of Catholicism and Wicca. “You mean like the CofE,” giggles Monsignor Rees-Mogg.

I’ve been asked to organise the wedding props. There are to be black candles and all the guests must arrive in red hooded capes. The ceremony is to be held at midnight at a secret location, but we’ve been ordered to make block bookings for hotels around Loch Ness.

Curiously, I’ve been ordered to monitor all the birth announcements carried in the Strathspey and Badenoch Herald next summer. Carrie asked me a funny question the other day. “How are they coming along with those renovations at Boleskine House?”