GOOD day, Britain. I’m Matt Hancock, your former health secretary, and I’d like you all to attend my mid-life crisis.
Yes, when male politicians reach a certain age – I’m 44 but my hair’s receding – they suffer the same worries as any man. Where’s my sports car? Can I get a younger girlfriend? Could I still forge a career as an international DJ?
And, after guiding you all through the Covid crisis safe and sound, give or take a couple of hundred thousand, then being filmed going at my intern like a £100 Dualit coffee grinder, I felt I deserved a classic crisis.
I’ve left the wife and kids. Done. I’m with a new bird and gush on about how in love we are unstoppably and insensitively, given the wife and kids. Done.
I’ve given up my ambitions for my old career. All my old workmates avoid me and Rishi wouldn’t even throw the Mattster a handshake. Done. So what’s next?
Well, remember the daily briefings? Their ratings? It wasn’t Whitty that had the nation rapt. I’m TV catnip. I’m going in there, baring my soul, flirting with the girl from Love Island, forming an unexpectedly strong bond with Boy George and yes, eating exotic anus.
This is the relaunch. This is the new me. The nation will see my sleeve tattoos, hear me playing my self-penned tracks on guitar, listen to my philosophies. I’ll easy be King of the Jungle. Gina and Matt will be the new Katie and Peter.
It’s going to be the greatest mid-life crisis of all time, and I’ll be doing it in front of the whole country. Tune in, Britain. You’re about to find out who the Mack Daddy is. The Matt Daddy. Matt. Me. Does that work?