BEING prime minister is what we at Eton used to call an ‘awful fag’. Here’s what a typical day consists of for me, Boris Johnson, the greatest PM since Churchill.
9am: Roll over and press the snooze button just in time to miss Today on Radio 4. The news is bloody depressing these days. Best to give it a swerve, to use the rugger parlance.
10am: Put my pyjamas and other dirties in a bag outside the door. No idea how it works, but somehow they always come back clean. Been like that since I was six. Tea and toast.
11am: Walk in St James’ Park holding a cup of coffee. Plenty of time to think about this virus malarkey later.
12.30 – 1.30pm: Tuck! Best meal of the day. Seconds of spotted dick.
2pm: Bloody red boxes arrive. Heaven knows what I’m supposed to do with them. I’m making a red bus with mine. Something to do during lockdown, I suppose.
3pm: Phone won’t stop ringing. Hide in Downing Street’s big fridge for a couple of hours.
4pm: Bollocks! Cummings is in the soup! All hands on deck! Call emergency cabinet meeting: Operation Cover Dom’s Arse.
5pm: Intensive rehearsals and script readings with key cabinet members. Frantically get to work on vague and unconvincing speech telling everyone to ‘move on’.
6pm: Disastrous press conference. Not my fault, obviously. The questions were too hard.
8pm: Get bollocked by Cummings on phone. Get the feeling I’m starting to go off this whole ‘being PM’ business a bit.
