Here's the latest entry in the diary of Rupert St John-Fontaine, adviser at the Department of Social Affairs...

THE week is dominated by trying to organise a Mick Lynch emergency response unit. A meeting has been convened for 9am sharp on Wednesday. It comprises that handful of SPADs who can walk and talk at the same time; a couple of laptop number-crunchers from Try central office and the Chair of the 1922 Committee of backbench MPs.

The less well-known 1923 Committee, who comprise a shadowy group of freemasons are also there. The 1923 Committee are also an ancient Tory order of Satanists, who meet in the Commons dungeons most weeks for a “social”, but not in any sense of the word “social” that you or I might recognise. No-one can gain ingress without a secret password which changes one hour before the meeting.

Any intruders are quickly identified when they fail to chant the ancient ceremonial rites which comprise a recitation of Enoch Powell’s Rivers of Blood speech. In Latin. Backwards. They are then disembowelled and fed to Lady Thatcher’s vampire, still pulsating away in a cellar of The Horseguards.

The presence of these fellows shows the party means business. Mr Michael Lynch is in for a very uncomfortable week.

This emergency meeting is being led by sweaty Michael Gove. Whenever there are black arts to be performed Gove is usually the man chosen to organise the deed. He’s in a bullish mood.

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“Look, we really need to get a grip on this Lynch fellow. He’s been making bloody confetti of our chaps over the rail strike. I mean, an Oxford education is supposed to give us an advantage over these ruffians. But he’s trouncing us hip and thigh all over the airwaves. I want him dead and buried by the end of the week.”

Sir Davidson Madden-Syme, head of the 1923 committee and a grand Satanic wizard in the Welsh Order of Walpurgia steps forward and immediately the lights in the meeting room flicker and a couple of windows fly open.

“Might I suggest that we just do a Salisbury door-handle job on him? I have a couple of operatives biding their time in Geneva waiting for the call to serve the Dark Lord and the Party.”

Gove’s having none of it. “The Salisbury job got too messy. We need to destroy his reputation … and then maybe deal with him by more direct means later. Does anyone know how big his house is? Where he goes on holiday? Is he susceptible to a bit of al fresco How’s Your Father? Where’s The Sun, The Telegraph and the Mail when we need them?”

At this point, Harald Bayer-Leverkusen, a senior adviser at the Home Office who’s descended from the Hapsburg Dynasty, steps forward. “Why don’t we get one of our trade union sleepers to gain access to his office and leave a pile of incriminating documents showing that he has shares in adult entertainment venues in Hungary or somewhere like that and a mistress whom he keeps in one of those £2m riverside apartments?

“It worked with Scargill in 1985 and it would have taken care of George Galloway in Iraq if the spooks hadn’t made such a pig’s ear of those incriminating documents found in the rubble of Saddam’s palace.”

“That’s a jolly good shout,” says Gove, “but we’ll need to work quickly. Rupert, I want you to get a hold of our graphics people to mock up the property deeds and false bank accounts. But it needs to be done by the close of business today.”

This puts me in something of a moral dilemma. I didn’t really sign up for this, but I also need to show ruthless loyalty in order to protect my status as a double agent who’s working for Nicola and the more sacred cause of Scottish independence.

I have a plan and it’s devilishly simple. I get the graphics people to mock up the false documents and we organise the drop to take place via a cleaner in the hotel where Lynch is staying during his negotiations with the rail bosses.

But in the high-calibre Boddington’s paper we use for the fake documents I ensure there’s a rare water-mark that’s used only by the British Secret services. I got this from Colonel Oleg, my old former Soviet Special Forces contact, who obtained it from the old Cold War sleepers who now occupy some of the top positions in British intelligence.

When the Telegraph swallow it, as they usually do, they’ll splash it all over their front page. It’ll be quickly exposed as a fake and MI5 will get the blame. Plus old Mick Lynch will probably be quids-in for a few hundred grand in damages from The Telegraph and the rail bosses will be forced to come to an agreement.

It’ll be a wee Brucie Bonus for Mick in return for entertaining the nation so much.