I can't carry on like this until the election, Sir Keir. It's humiliating that everyone thinks I'm this thick

I THOUGHT I was ready for anything as your undercover agent in the Tories. Interrogation, danger, all that. But not the whole world thinking I’m a cretin.

Everywhere I go I’m a laughing stock. Cabinet, Parliament, the 1922 Committee, the BBC, they’re all nudging each other and saying ‘That’s her. That’s the one who crashed an entire country.’

At least Kwasi’s gone. You were right, he really did believe all that low-tax high-growth bollocks. He was shocked to be fired. ‘But Liz, you and me! Bonnie and Clyde! We were tearing this shithouse down together!’

‘Well,’ I told him, ‘it turns out disrupting involves an unacceptable level of disruption. And banks aren’t keen to lend you billions based on the word ‘growth’.’

‘You can’t have been saying it right,’ he said. ‘I did! I said it really boldly and emphatically while gazing steely-eyed into an aspirational future!’ ‘Bollocks,’ he said.

Now they’ve parachuted Hunt in, who is either extremely surprised to have gone from being a random prick to chancellor or that’s just his face, and he won’t talk to me. Or look at me. Or be in the same room.

Two minders follow me wherever I go. I was worried my cover was blown. No. ‘She’s too stupid to be left alone,’ Hunt said, and didn’t even care I was there.

I was only allowed in the Commons on condition I didn’t say anything. I tried to look wise and statesmanlike, as if the total reversal of my plans was my plan all along, but on telly I looked like a plucked owl.

Britain hates me. Joe Biden thinks I’m a dick. I’m a world-renowned moron. I can’t wait until you win the election and reveal I was your agent all along. You’re not going to do that, are you? Shit.

Let's move to a Somerset town steeped in myth that isn't where the f**king festival is! This week: Glastonbury

What’s it about?

Nestled among the rolling flatness of Somerset, Glastonbury is a retreat for lifestyle-choice hippies escaping the capitalist ideologies blighting our century and who are wealthy enough to do so.

Famous worldwide for the legendary drugfest of the Glastonbury Festival, which isn’t in the town at all but three miles up the road in Pilton. It stole the name because Glastonbury sounds all druidic and mystical while the Pilton Festival sounds plain wank.

Any good points?

Depends on your perspective. If when your child skins their knee your immediate reponse is to reach for crystals, you’ll fit right in. Whether shaman, Viking, Reiki healer or ley-line channeller, you’ll find kindred spirits. Which is a problem when you’ve build your whole persona around being different.

Here you’ll find unashamed white witches, self-professed wizards and ageing tree-huggers in badly-fitting, vaguely ethnic tie-dyed clothing, along with grown men dressed as Merlin who’s imprisoned in a tree somewhere nearby.

Two natural, supposedly healing springs emerge from the foot of the famous Tor on Wellhouse Lane. The White Spring is in an ancient cave where the heinous crime of photography is forbidden but nude swimming is near-compulsory.

The Red Spring, which meanders through the grounds of the idyllic Chalice Well and Gardens, is rich in iron, smells of sulphur and will have you shitting through the eye of a needle if a drop touches your lips.

But it’s not all dreamcatchers and genital piercings. The Clarks Village retail outlet is full of Barbour and Le Creuset almost as if this isn’t a spiritual place outside of time but is full of middle-class people affecting a non-materialistic lifestyle when nobody’s fucking looking.

Wonderful landscapes?

Certainly. Looking down from the top of the Tor on chilly mornings in ancient times, the low-lying mists over the town and surrounding farmland gave the eerie impression you were cast adrift from any mainland, earning it the mystical name of the Isle of Avalon.

Nowadays, when everyone has central heating and gas fires and shit, the cloying fug which enshrouds the town is generated by its entire population waking up, skinning up and exhaling high-grade skunk.

The Tor also gives a stunning view of the sprawling festival site, with the added benefit of only facing the back of the Pyramid Stage so you can enjoy Coldplay’s fireworks while not seeing the band.

You can also amble around the ruins of the town’s abbey, dating back to the 8th century, once one of the richest and most powerful monasteries in England. Every twat will be skinning up here as well.

Hang out at…

The King Arthur on Benedict Street has the largest beer garden in town, though the biggest outdoor drinking retreat is the slopes and fields surrounding the Tor.

It also boasts one of the county’s top restaurants, the Michelin-starred Queen of Cups, serving an eclectic mix middle-eastern, Oriental and Mediterranean food to a homeogenous crowd of blue-haired facially-pierced tattooed dope-smokers.

Where to buy?

House prices rise as you ascend towards the Tor, either in thrall to its spirituality or because they’re bigger and posher. But higher up there’s only an eco-friendly health shop selling vegan milks, while lower down there’s a big Morrisons.

From the streets:

Emma Bradford, lost tourist: “I took a wrong turn and ended up here. Everyone’s off their tits and once toured with The Levellers. I want to go home.”

Jack Brown, stoned local: “Glastonbury’s not a place, it’s a vibe. And the centre of a network of county lines drug gangs but mainly a vibe.”