Dad was in a right old funk over his breakfast this morning. They were talking on the radio about how someone miscounted the number of Covid patients. I can’t yet count up to one, so I’m not in a position to criticise, but dad seemed pretty fed up. Then somebody else came on the radio and started talking about something called an opinion poll. Dad seemed even more fed up, and asked if we could get the people who had miscounted the Covid cases to be in charge of vote counting at the next election. He didn’t even complain when mum switched over to Kiss FM. They normally have a fight when she does that, and she reminds him that that’s what happens when you settle down with someone 24 years younger than you. Dad normally starts mumbling “Ah yes, settling down, definitely” at that point, and leaves the room. Today he just sat there staring at his low-fat granola.
Dad left in a much more upbeat frame of mind this morning. He’s giving his conference speech. “Best conference ever,” he said. “I don’t have to spend the afternoon gladhanding the blue rinse brigade and attending tea parties.” Then he looked sad for a moment, and muttered something about missing the Young Conservatives disco. Then he said to mum “You’ll be sure to tune in? It’s all available online, the whole thing’s virtually watchable.” “I think you forgot an ‘un’,” said mum, and smiled at him weirdly.
It was fun watching dad on the telly later. He was talking about turning the country into a New Jerusalem. Mum laughed and said: “If he means turning it into an irrevocably divided society where one side can’t stand the other, I think he’s already done it.”
Dad’s employing a lady called Allegra Stratton to be his spokeswoman. I heard him talking about it with scary Uncle Dom this morning. Mum seemed worried about it. She said to them: “I just don’t see why it has to be a woman called Allegra. Boris’ first wife was called Allegra. What happens if the press start having fun with that?” Dom laughed (it’s a horrible sound, which always loosens my bowels) and said “My dear Carrie, if we start ruling out women with the same name as ones Boris has a history with, we’ll never employ another woman in government.”
“Well, I think it’s a capital idea,” said Boris. “It’ll certainly keep me out of the firing line. What a splendid plan, getting a woman to do my dirty work for me.” Mum, who was changing my freshly soiled nappy, went very quiet after that.
“It’s all part of a switch to a more American-style approach to dealing with the press,” continued Dom. “We’re going to do it exactly how they do in the White House.” “How do you mean?” said mum. “By having a leader with terrible hair cocking everything up until he’s voted out of office in a month?” Then she left the room, looking happier than I’ve seen her in days.
Dad was chuckling away this morning about something called the Great Barrington Declaration. It’s something a load of scientists have signed that basically says we should get on with everything and kill all the old, fat and disabled people. I don’t think it sounds very nice. Even scary Uncle Dom isn’t entirely behind the idea. Probably. Anyway, dad was laughing and saying to mum that all sorts of people who were claiming to be respected scientists had signed the declaration. They included someone called Dr Johnny Fartpants, Mr Banana Rama, and an academic from the University of Your Mum, as well as a therapist specialising in Mongolian Khoomii singing. Mum smiled back and said: “Sounds to me like they’d be ideal for your next cabinet, darling.”
Dad was in a fury today about some advert. Apparently the government is trying to persuade everyone to change jobs and become mountain rescue operatives or astronauts or something. Anyway, this advert suggested that a ballerina should retrain and become a computer expert. Lots of people went on to the internet and said they thought it was a rubbish idea. Dad was stomping about shouting at people. At one point he yelled “Maybe if we had former ballerinas working our computers, we’d learn how to use fucking Excel, and not miss 16,000 cases off our sick list.” Mum just smiled, and danced out of the room on her tiptoes.
Dad went out later and gave a speech on TV, about a new three-tier system. He came in at night, when they thought I was asleep, and was showing off to mum about how well it had all gone. Mum looked sad, and said to him: “Oh Boris, why is it everything you do ends in tiers?” He started to comfort her, and then he suggested they go off to bed so she could test his opinion poll. She pointed at the clock and said: “Sorry, darling. !0pm curfew.” He slept in the spare room. Again.