Quelle horreur, readers! That cheeky M. Barnier has given us ministers a collective smacked bottom for squabbling in class - though in my book he gets away with it because of his dishy French accent. I also rather agree with him that if poor Theresa would only focus a little less on telling us how she’s Boudica and more on the admittedly distasteful business of sorting out her own front bench (and I don’t mean that euphemistically, darlings) we might stand a slightly better chance of restoring the Empire or whatever the whole horrid business was about.
As for yours truly I just paid a courtesy call to Drastic Dave. Now it’s true Sainsda may have relegated Tesco to the position of Man Utd (I have absolutely NO idea what that means, darlings, but my new little factotum George insisted I put it in) but Dave seems happy enough with £5m for all his terribly hard work this year coming second, achieving over half of his waste targets and whatnot, and who can blame him?
Over a lovely Fray Bentos ‘steak’ pudding in the Welwyn canteen (surrounded by a droopy gaggle of millennials gawping at our supernatural opening abilities) the conversation turned to how best to keep the country fed in the face of the greatest threat to our national welfare since Sir Winnie was in charge. Yes that’s right, Hugh and Jamie are once again lurking around the culinarily challenged corners of this sceptred isle, accompanied only by their 20-strong TV crews and their own formidable hubris, trying to persuade the Scots and Geordies to cut back on the deep-fried fag sandwiches.
Obviously, Frexit is fully behind any such worthy egos. I mean initiatives. Oh George, DO stop sniggering, there’s a dear.
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