Mother (Cooked) Goose?

Saucy Georgie, cocaine and lie,

kissed a girl. (She made him cry.)

Andy Coulson came to stay;

made Georgie’s story fade away.

Ecclesiastes 1:9

This afternoon, whilst my wrinkled old retainer was working his way through the to be filed pile, he came across a cablegram received in 1938*. Once he'd wiped it down, we read it.

URGENT STOP LORD BURDOCK IGNORANT OF ALL INTERCEPTED CABLES
STOP DENY DENY DENY STOP HE ON HOLIDAY EXCLAMATION MARK STOP AND WASN'T LISTENING ANYWAY STOP RUBBISH SCOOP IN DAILY BRUTE STOP UPFOLLOW URGENTLIEST WITH NEW STORY STOP RUSH UNREST ESSENTIALEST STOP PM FRANKLY QUESTION MARK STOP CONTINUE CABLING UNREST BRACKET BETTER STILL WARS CLOSE BRACKET OPEN BRACKET BETTER STILL VICTORIES CLOSE BRACKET UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE STOP ED.

Honestly, you couldn't make it up.

* He might be slow but he's very slapdash.

Howdee, Howdee, Howdee

Transcript of top secret, long distance telephone conversation leaked to Moptop Towers by an underground mole*.

David C: Mr Bratwurst, frankly I am delighted that you have made the time to talk to me.
Bill Bratwurst: Mr President, I have many happy memories of the Ukraine, the Beatles in particular.
David C: The peasants have been revolting and, frankly, I've had enough.
Bill Bratwurst: Shoot 'em. What do you guys call it? The Glorious Twelfth?
David C: Peasants! Oiks, yobs and hooligans - I mean, hoodlums.
Bill Bratwurst: Ya wan' me to shoot 'em for ya?
David C: I want your advice. We have a problem with gangs.
Bill Bratwurst: Uh-huh?
David: Do you know that since 2009 we've had thirteen gang-related murders in London?
Bill Bratwurst: Thirteen?
David C: Dreadful, isn't it?
Bill Bratwurst: A pissant thirteen murders? That all? Why, we had one hundred and fifty seven. And LA has half the population of London Town. You guys are freakin' amateurs. No offence, Mr President.
David C: Yes, well, that's why I'd like you on board. We'll do whatever it takes -
Georgie-O: (HISSES) - As long as we don't have to fund any youth clubs.
Bill Bratwurst: How many were killed last week?
David C: Sadly, five.
Bill Bratwurst: I can see ya problem from here. Ya wanna issue officers with semi-automatic weapons. Why, in 1992 my officers shot double that number in LA alone.
David C: (HASTILY) Er, we'd rather not talk about police shooting the public. Frankly.
Bill Bratwurst: The Mayor of New York raised taxes - gave me an extra five thousand police officers.
Georgie-O: Raised taxes??
David C: We probably won't fill the current vacancies at The Metropolitan Police - Police Commissioner, Assistant Police Commissioner, that sort of thing. Theresa's doing a marvellous job. You know how good the ladies are at multi-tasking.
Bill Bratwurst: Poker.
David C: (HORRIFIED) Theresa??
Bill Bratwurst: It's about keepin' a straight face and playing the hand you're dealt. Mr President, I've been an outsider in every department I've worked in -
David C: Excellent. Just the ticket.
Bill Bratwurst:  - 'Cause Trigger couldn't manage the steps.
David C: Trigger?
Bill Bratwurst: My horse flies Club.

* Where else would it be? - Ed.

About Four Euros a Day

Dear Mr Cameron

Have you ever engaged in the genteel sport of snorkelling? I ask because I know your holiday was cut tragically short and you had to restore your socks toot-sweet.

The Youth has been revolting again and you must be at your wit's end. (I surmise that the singular possessive apostrophe is correct.)

The pallid complexion disguised by the expensive Tuscan tan doesn't fool me for a second, Sir! You need the oxygen of good publicity. A few favourable headlines in The Daily Beast, what? And, of course, now you've been forced to disown Mr Murdoch (père et fils) these headlines aren't quite so easy to come by.

I feel your pain.

So, tomorrow morning pop along to the Serpentine in your Boden trunks, belly flop into the shallow end by the - sshhh! - duck house, splash around for a few minutes - feather-footed through the plashy fens - and just under the rusting Coke can and the empty packet of Scampi Fries you'll find a large stash of Roman jewellery. Rings, bangles, buckles, cigarette cases and those things they wrapped around their upper arms - I forget the name. I got them all from Past Times and they are guaranteed genuine reproductions.

(I've gone for jewellery as cracked vases will leave you open to various media wags chanting What's a Greek urn? Best avoided, eh?)

Anyway, take care not to drown as I can't imagine the Police Diving Squad will be all that swift in coming to your assistance after those remarks you made.

I've been on the blower to an Assistant Chief Constable and he's already sold the info to Fleet Street's Finest so, Mr C., remember to look surprised when the flashbulbs go off.

It's worked for Vlad and it'll work for you, mark my words.

All best wishes &c, &c

M.


P.S. Apols to any comment-makers. Blogger has declared me persona non grata and won't let me reply to any comments.

Hacked Off

To Whom it May Concern ~

In my defence, none of this - any of it - was my fault because I was on holiday at the time.

I think that you will find this to be a water-tight defence.

Sack the solicitor, lay off the lawyer,* and banish the barrister.

I was on holiday is defence enough for murder, mayhem or - ahem - ever so illegal phone-hacking. In fact, the only phone-hacking I know anything at all about is the percussion section of the Bonzo Dog Doodah Band, track two, featuring phone-hacking, tub-thumping, and gooseberry-jamming. All of which I listened to whilst I was on holiday.

Yours sincerely/wish you were here etc. etc.

RB

* This item of Political Birdfeed is sponsored by the Oxford Comma.

Ma Cherie Amour (Four) by Antonia Cartland Blair

The story so far: Our hero - O! Can I be bothered explaining? Just read the damn thing. The life of a romatic novelist is hardly that ... And so it continues.

Chapter MCXXVI

The parchment crackled in my strong, masculine grip; a hand-written epistle from my arch enemy, the evil, wicked, and nefarious Baron Brown.

My heart fluttered in my chest like a wren trying to escape from a birdcage made of ribs. I slumped against the Ottoman – the Ottoman Ambassador, that is, who made his excuses and left with a quite unseemly haste and an even more unseemly slamming of my beautifully carved and gilded door.

I charged into the morning room, my coat-tails flittering like pennants behind me in the swift speed of my entrance. “Cherie, what should I do?”

My beloved looked up from the slim volume she was perusing. “Antonio? O, I shouldn’t do anything until Carole’s communed with Aquarius.” She yawned prettily and turned a page with a languid finger.

Our parlour maid, Carole, had recently become enamoured with a mountebank astrologer and was taking every opportunity to influence Ma Cherie with the frequent application of scented oils, candles and drawer-liners whilst I concerned myself with the vitally important business of ruling the country.

“Petros!” I called in my manly baritone.

Mendlesohn who, as was his wont, lurked in the shadows beyond the door, answered my summons. “Sir?” His dark hair flopped loosely over his brow in a most ungentlemanly way.

“Prepare my carriage. I have been invited to dine with the Baron in Vauxhall Gardens. ”

Mendlesohn was immediately alert – there was a definite erectness in his stance. The Baron had this disconcerting effect on us all. I fixed him (Petros not the Baron) with my uncommonly piercing blue eyes. “You shall accompany me, disguised as my valet. Breathe not a word to McAllister. We travel alone.”

~*~

Vauxhall was a cacophonic symphony of smells and colours. The bright, cheap dresses of les demoiselles de la nuit; the frivolous, surging swell of the orchestra; the platters of pork pies and wet nellies – all converged in a sensational dizziness. O, if only I was an ordinary man, with ordinary responsibilities and ordinary needs! But – no! – I was destined for greatness and being a slave to my destiny I must but accept my lot with the humble humility for which I was rightly famed the world over.

“You’ll take an ice?” My dining companion growled at me, one dark eye twitching slightly under ungroomed brows.

“O, well, mmm, my tailor –“. My carefully polite hesitancy fell on the Baron’s barren ground.

“It wasnae a question.” He grunted at the hovering waiter and almost immediately a crystal bowl of iced cream appeared before me. It was dusted with sherbet and crowned with an impressive log of dark chocolate. Was this a subtle indication? A codified message of his intentions towards me? But, still - the rare cocoa bean! I licked my lips like a snake that had last caught a mouse many months past.

“My Lord.” Mendlesohn was at my elbow, hissing in my ear.

“What is it, Petros?”

His breath was warm against my cheek. “You must not eat the chocolate, my Lord.”

“Good heavens!” I was suddenly unnerved. My linen napkin came adrift from my collar and floated to the floor.

The Baron stooped to retrieve it then fixed me with his one good dull almost beige brown eye.

I feigned a cough and, whilst my hand covered my mouth, directed a question at my Camp Aide. “Is it poisoned, Petros? Have you uncovered yet another vile plot?”

Petros shuffled closer and mimed wiping a spot of gravy from my cravat. “No, my Lord,” he muttered under his breath. “You cannot eat the chocolate because it will appear greedy.”

“What? No chocolate with my iced cream? But I always have chocolate with my iced cream!”

“No, Sir. You are amongst common people. You must live like common people, do whatever common people do.” Mendlesohn stepped back from my chair and imperceptibly nodded towards the neighbouring tables, which were at that very moment in time filled with the chattering classes of the City.

I looked at my dining companion. The waiter had brought another bowl of iced cream and set it before the Baron. His portion was decidedly more prudent, one scoop, uncrowned by sherbet or chocolate: a very plain – nay, Presbyterian - iced cream.

I had been fooled by his kindness, tricked into accepting his hospitality and now I was in a supremely awkward position. The chocolate log lurched backwards, whilst iced cream melted like so many tears of frustration, disappointment and betrayal. The scheming Scotch scoundrel! The wily, plotting Caledonian!

I pushed back my bowl and rose from the table. The battle lines were drawn. Now, may the best man win.

To be continued ...

Ma Cherie Amour - Encore! Encore!

Chapter 14.

Antonio and Cherie, having breakfasted, discuss the genre of the political memoir. Unbeknownst to them, Baron Brown has set spies to work within their household ...

‘Your interminable diary!’ Cherie threw my Smythson journal across the room. I flinched, fearing for the rare African Ostrich leather. Would I be able to buff the scuffs occasioned by its sudden exodus?

“Listen to me, Antonio.” She was a woman on fire - although, I hasten to add, not literally - her dark eyes blazing with passion, that wide, scarlet-lipped mouth quivering with indignation. “You are straying into dangerous territory. What if the Baron were to hear of this?”

“I have not the slightest fear of him! I have taken lessons in literary technique from a Mr. Trollope.” I strode across the polished walnut floor, retrieved my journal and placed it on the rosewood armoire.

Cherie’s embonpoint shivered like a milk pudding above the strictures of her corset, but I noted with some relief that her mouth was less tremulous.

I gazed towards the Houses of Parliament, visible had not the heavy, tapestried curtains been left unopened by Ann, our idle chit of a parlourmaid. “Yes. Trollope has instructed me in the art of writing a Roman á Clef. I shall be describing real life, behind a façade of fiction.”

Cherie plucked a bonbon from a Meissen dish and nibbled at the sugared crust, the crystals coating her little, pink tongue like a small snake caught in snow.

My speech quickened in my heartfelt excitement. “But, Cherie, my book shall be different from the traditional political memoir. Most such memoirs are, I have found, rather easy to put down.” I examined my fingernails modestly. Yesterday’s manicure was bearing up well. “So what you will read here is not a conventional description of who I met or what I did.”

“Thank Heavens for that!” Cherie threw herself, somewhat dramatically, onto the velvet chaise longue. Her pansy-printed taffeta gown floated like the petals of a delicate flower around her voluptuous curves. “Shall you write about me, my love?”

I blew her a kiss. “How could one not? You shall have more mentions than Petros and McAllister put together!”

My mood was exuberant, and a heady giddiness fuelled my generosity.

I stood in front of the magnificent marble fireplace. The coals burned merrily, my posterior glowing as I warmed to my theme. “In my books,” I said, reaching for a thin porcelain cup of Indian Breakfast tea, “there is a range of events and dates. Other politicians are absent from it, not because they don’t matter, but because my aim was to write not as a historian, like Herodotus, Tacitus or even Gibbon, but rather as a leader."

“A leader?” Cherie raised a quizzical eyebrow, the coquettish effect of which brought a slight but pleasurable tremor to my breeches.

I girded myself. “There have been plenty of accounts – and no doubt there will be dozens more – of the history of my ten years as prime minister, and numerous people could write them – shall we say? – passably well -”

My train of thought was broken as ma Cherie choked back a sob.

“O! That dreadful book by that dreadful man!”

I rushed towards her, knelt at her feet and clasped her hands. They trembled like distraught doves in my manly grip.

A single tear formed a silvery track down her porcelain cheek. “He said dreadful things about me, Antonio!”

“Which one, my sweet?"

I thought of the countless blackguards who had sworn friendship then betrayed us. The bearded chap with the dog; Lepre-Scott, the opera singer from the Far North whose vulgar calling card bore the legend Lepre-Scott, The Voice That Can Clear Fog. So many, so many ...

“Carole!”

A shadow of a wince flitted across my youthfully smooth brow. Cherie had recovered her composure and was calling for the new lady’s maid. No matter the money spent on elocution and tutors, one could take the girl out of Bootle but –

“Yes, ‘um.” The accent of The Colonies grated coarsely on my ear.

Carole stood before her mistress. She was a good girl, with an honest expression; a maid to be trusted, one who would not run tittle-tattling to the guttersnipes who frequented the sordid alehouses of Fleet Street.

“Carole.” Although still on my knees, I had an air of absolute authority. “Please arrange hot water for your mistress to bathe. That will be all.” I dismissed her formally, but with a kindly glimmer in my strikingly blue eyes.

I turned back to Cherie. “Let us continue our discussion of my meagre literary efforts. There is only one person who can write an account of what it is to be the human – singular not plural – being at the centre of history."

“Moi?” Cherie blushed fetchingly. Her gentle laugh like the trickle of a mountain stream through tiny quartz pebbles.

“No, my darling, little ninny. Me."

To be continued

Ma Cherie Amour - part 2

The story so far.



Having sated his love - like an animal - with the object of his adoration, Cherie, our hero, Antonio, sips a whisky and remembers times past.

Chapter 13

Where had it all gone wrong? I dismissed the butler for the evening, laid my first edition copy of I,Claudius down on the occasional gilt table and gazed into my stiff whisky glass. The years melted away ...

A chill November night. We had dined at Grand Vita, an establishment frequented by actresses, dancing girls, dressers, usherettes and other theatrical types. Outside, heavy rain softened the orange glow of the gas lamps. Hansom cabs splashed past us, the horses blackly sleek with water, the drivers perched atop their conveyances like little waterproofed molehills, sharp white noses peeking like beaks from under the brims of sou’westers.

“Come, Baron Brown, shelter beneath my umbrella. Walk with me a while.” I offered my arm with its pristine white-gloved hand.

The Baron, an imposing figure in a long, tweed cape which reached almost to the hem of his dress kilt, stood head and shoulders above the others. He prodded me with his silver-topped ebony cane.

“Aye, it’s a generous offer, Antonio, but I’m gaein’ in this direction,” he growled in that rough, manly baritone I was to grow so fond and then so frightened of.

He gestured vaguely, somewhere towards the left, where the wide, well-paved streets petered into alleyways with stinking gutters. What devilish scheme was he concocting?

“I’m the leader and you’re not! If we go my way,” I wheedled, using all the considerable charm at my disposal, “and head in a more central direction with perhaps a few right turns, we’ll almost arrive where you’d like to –“

The door to Grand Vita banged open. A sudden pool of light; laughter, the clatter of silverware, the pungent odour of eels en croute. Harriet, a pretty young thing with a sullen mouth, lately employed as the understudy to the Scottish King at The Duke’s, swayed and hitched up her stays. She broke wind loudly, giggled and returned whence she'd came.

I turned back to the Baron. He had gone, his hulking bulk merging with the dark shadows. And I was left alone, with my umbrella sheltering just my own slim and athletically erect frame, a disappointed yet private relief etched across my face...

I was startled from my reverie by my valet, Campbell McAllister, and my Camp Aide, Petros Mendlesohn.

Mendlesohn was shaking me awake, his grip surprisingly firm. “Lord Antonio! Wake up, Sir!”

His speech was indistinct, muted by the hideous clanking of McAllister’s huge balls.

“Please put them away, Campbell,” I murmured, covering my piercing blue eyes with a delicate hand. “Why have you dressed for dinner so early? I have asked you not to wear full regalia in my personal quarters. It is too, too unseemly.”

He produced a great quantity of linen handkerchief from the bottomless depths of his pocket, spat and then polished his balls lovingly. “But it’s a great honour, my Lord Antonio, awarded for services to the Pawnbroker Industry.”

I sighed. If only ma Cherie was here with me. She was a rock – as in Ignatius not Blackpool - to me, strong when I was weak, determined when I was tempted to fall over. One steely glance from her and –

But, thankfully, the good-natured, simple man was unpinning the medals from his chest.

Petros edged closer, his breath hot against my ear. He hissed softly, like a snake with a puncture.

“Antonio, the State Banquet for the Texan oilman. There is a problem. The new Chef, Monsieur Picquelles, he has eaten all the pies!”

I slumped in my beautifully carved mahogany chair. Do they really suppose I don't care, don't feel, don't regret with every fibre of my being the loss of those pies? To be indifferent to that would be inhuman, emotionally warped -

What flavour where the pies? What is Baron Brown up to? Who is the Texan Oilman and will Monsieur Picquelles eat him, too?

To be continued

Ma Cherie Amour - A Novel by Antonia Cartland-Blair

The story so far: In the middle of the night, our hero Antonio has fled from the malevolent grip of the brooding Baron Brown. After several hours of wandering around Islington, he espies a lit window in a much more tasteful mansion, filled with elegant soft furnishings, healing crystals and scented candles. He has found solace with his childhood sweetheart, Cherie.

Chapter 12

The rain set early in tonight. The sullen wind was soon awake. The tree-tops tried their utmost to resist the elements, as I, too, tried in vain to resist the attractions of the raven-haired temptress sitting by the glowing embers of the log fire, an antique glass of even more antique whiskey - a gift from Signorio Sergio Bersculonio - in her beautifully manicured hand.

The heady scent of burning applewood, the rich amber tones of the spirit, the deliciously seductive fragrance of Tramp by Lentheric affected my senses. I threw caution to the winds and myself at my beloved's feet.

She cradled me in her arms and soothed me; told me what I needed to be told; strengthened me; made me feel that what I was about to do was right... And that the rug could be dry-cleaned anyway.

On that night of the 12th May, 1994, I needed that love Cherie gave me, selfishly. In that I was selfish, not she - my syntax is unclear. She, as softly plump as a silk, goose-feather-stuffed counterpane; she, raking those manicured talons across my back like a snake with fingers; she, giving me her utmost attention whilst simultaneously checking the property ads for Bristol ...

O! O! O! I devoured it to give me strength, I was an animal - a panda, a tiger, a horned rhinoceros - following my instinct, knowing I would need every fibre of emotional power and resilience to cope with what lay ahead. I was exhilarated, afraid and determined in roughly equal quantities as I kissed her roughly - as in approximately rather than without due care and consideration as it was dark and not easy to find (just like those pesky weapons of mass destruction) - on her swollen lips and took her roughly - as in approximately as well as without due care and attention - on the Axminster rug.

"Was that it?" she murmured in slightly petulant tones as she reached for my vest.

I was restored, victorious, ready to face my vicious Scottish foe, my arch enemy, my nemesis, the man with the emotional intelligence of an amoeba. Ma Cherie amour! I am a man once more.

To be continued

More of this overwrought tosh tomorrow, the day after, next week, October, November, December, most of 2011 and coming to a Pay Per View Channel  soon.

Crack **********

Read. Turn. Finish. Sigh. Think.

Chop, fry, splash, simmer, serve.

Eat.

Watch. Laugh. Nudge. Rewind. Snort. Snigger. Gasp. Consider.

Run. Scrub. Sweat. Stand. Dry. Slump. Retire.Type.

No, this is not a piece of painfully modern verse, but my attempt to bring down the capitalist system with a description of my most recent goings on. (I have goings ons rather than activities as activities are far too, well, active.)

According to  Crack Capitalism (John Holloway: Pluto £17.99),  nouns (car, wall, food) hide the activity that created them. Therefore all 'anti-capitalist literature should abandon nouns and just use verbs'.

Verbs.

My little protest (above) made the Dow Jones Index plunge by 0.000000000003 of a cent.

I wonder if abstract nouns count as anti-capitalist? They cannot be seen, touched, smelled or tasted, have no monetary value - and very little literary value, come to think of it ...

Still, it's a bit rum to charge £17.99 for a book on how to be an anti-capitalist, don't you think?

I studied Sociology at night school when I was sixteen (so I could avoid further Latin) and until then had thought capitalism was WRITING LIKE THIS. Within a week, I was fired up by a whacking big set text - the infamous Haralambos - and subscribed to New Society (as it was then) which resulted in my father thinking we were on one of MI5's lists.

There was a row every Wednesday as my left-wing periodical landed on the doormat. (Making strange noises on the upstairs' phone whilst Pa was talking on the downstairs' phone probably didn't help the situation.) I told him that his morning delivery of The Daily Telegraph would cancel out any suspicions raised by my 'pink rag' but he wasn't reassured.

Capitalism clearly isn't working. The earth will run out of resources if we carry on consuming so greedily. Let's bring down the ********** to its ***** by only using ***** when we write. (Ooh, I believe that last sentence brought about a wobble in the Hostess/Twinkie empire.)

The posters for our protest marches - there'll be several, don't worry - are going to be tricky.

STOP THE ***!

BAN THE ****!

LEGALISE ************!

If you can offer a noun-less solution, I'll be forever in your debt.

There Once Was a Tory Named Hunt ...

In a whistle-stop tour of the Capital's artistic venues and ventures, Jeremy Hunt, Culture Secretary, gave every indication that he was approaching his new role with energy and vigour.

In an astonishing act of oneupmanship, the Culture Secretary had already pledged to cut his departmental workforce by 50% and move the rest of them into a cupboard off the M25 corridor.

"I've nothing against ex-ballet dancers an' operatic types, but they're not very clever with an 'ole-punch, an'll 'ave ter go," he announced to BBC Radio 4's James Naughtie at the beginning of a culturally diverse day. "I want ter start me day with a mug of tea, not a friggin' demi-plié."

As he left the radio studio, an unattended mic picked up something that sounded suspiciously like: "An' don' think yer job is safe either, yer jumped up little haggis!" although Mr Hunt's personal assistant refused to give confirmation of this.

Next stop : Tate Modern. In a long and convoluted speech which clearly owed much to the Surrealist and Dadaist artistic movements, Mr Hunt concluded: "Me? I know nuffink bar t'art, bu' I know I don' like it."

He received a muted applause from Sir Nicholas Serota.

Mid-morning, at a meeting of the T.S. Eliot Prize committee, Hunt hinted that there would be no Government funding for poetic sagas, sestinas, villanelles or laureates.

"If yer can't say it in five lines, is it worth sayin' at all?" he shouted at a packed room of delighted poets who had only heard his final category of cut.

At Covent Garden he pleaded a flash migraine and asked "the fat cow in the toga to put a sock in it" during a dress rehearsal of Verdi's Aida and told the "fairy in tights to take the sock out" during a similar rehearsal of The Nutcracker. Hunt laughed uproariously at his final remark and said, "Now that's what I call Culture. The great Bernard Manning never got a subsidy!"

Mr Hunt's visits received a mixed reception. The African Parrot and Tango Collective were sniffy about his reaction to a piece of Public Art assembled from 250,000 redundant vuvuzelas.

"He offered to torch the lot, " said Segun Franko, Chief Zela-sculptor. "And the English football squad with it."

Hunt has told The Arts to fund their work with charitable donations as Government funding is cut to the bone.

"Philanthropy should fill the gap easily," he said. "Get all the unemployed actresses out on the streets rattlin' tins. I'd slip a farthin' to a pretty girl."

In a bid to lead by example, Hunt offered a year's supply of Toffee Crisps and a £15 Book Token as first prize in the Jeremy Hunt Inaugural Limerick Competition.

Mrs Rollocks (57) of Putney Hill, was very impressed. "The Country's not been unified by the death of a celebrity for ages now. Let's get behind Mr Hunt. A National Limerick Competition is just what we need," she grinned. "And it will certainly take the poetic spotlight off me."

Every Lidl Helps

In a bid to combat accusations of an elitist grocery system, David Cameron has ordered the Home Secretary to investigate why there are no decent supermarkets in London.

On Saturday, the Prime Minister confided in a local resident: “I'm terrified living in central London. Am I going to find a good food emporium for my house-keeper, nutritionist and personal chef? I feel it as a gourmand, let alone a politician."

The comments have provoked outrage from the shop-keeping profession and opposition politicians, and anger from Tesco-controlled Westminster city council.

Mrs Doris Glossop has invited Mr Cameron to tour the Lidl store, just over ten miles from Downing Street, where she has been a checkout operator/shelf-stacker for three years. “Our carrier bags may not have the cachet of Marks & Spencer, but they are every bit as sturdy,” she said. "We have fresh food, frozen and tinned here. We even do international weeks with Indian and Chinese delicacies – subject to limited availability. I would be very happy for the Camerons to come and visit. We extend an invite to them.”

The Camerons still have several months’ worth of store-cupboard essentials to get through before they’ll need to shop around. Their spokesman denied that the couple had always planned to be Ocado customers.

“David dearly wants to support the local grocers but he rarely finds polenta on their shelves and their sundried tomatoes tend to be marinated in vegetable oil rather than single estate virgin olive oil he prefers.”

Cameron's family shopped at Fortnum & Mason whilst his wife's frequented Harrod's Food Hall. Last year, Cameron told a newspaper: "In an ideal world, I would like my children to shop at Asda, but the pyjama-clad clientele are - frankly - off-putting."

No Oil Painting

BP's woes increased this week as its long-term sponsorship of The Arts came under attack. The press opening of the BP Portrait Awards was gatecrashed by the Don't Panic collective who offered guests wine glasses filled with thick black liquid.

"It's actually artistically tactless," said Ann Herbert, an electronic artist. "All visitors should make a point of only looking at watercolours, collages and gouaches. Boycott any portrait painted in oils. It's the only language BP understands," she added.

Other major galleries and museums are also feeling the pressure of being linked to BP. Last month a group called Liberate Tate entered the gallery's main turbine hall and released dozens of black balloons attached to dead fish in protest against the Gulf oil spill. Gallery staff had to shoot the balloons down with air rifles, but not before hundreds of tourists had applauded what was widely assumed to be a new work by Damien Hirst.

It was later confirmed that Charles Saatchi had offered to buy both the balloons and fish in a private sale.

A spokesman from The Museum Association said, "It's not the protests we object to per se, but the low artistic standards of the demonstrators. There's been no nudity, no setting fire to a million quid in a briefcase, and no-one's pulled a dead dolphin out of their foo. It's very disappointing."

Tracie Eminem, for the Arts Council, pointed out. "We give grants for this sort of thing. There really is no excuse for just sloshing a bit of black stuff about and calling it a protest. Gilbert and George would be turning in their graves."

One Headline Fits All

The Association of Newspaper Editors today gave their seal of approval to the Con-Dem Coalition Government.

"Under New Labour, we were constantly wrong-footed in terms of headline material," said a spokesman. "One day it was bigots, the next Balls. It was hard to keep up."

The institution of a 'one headline fits all' policy has found favour with typesetters, sub-editors, journalists and readers alike.

"It's been a God-send," the spokesman continued. "Cabinet Ministers have the phrase 'burden on society' as a permanent fixture. All we have to do is change the category of burden. It's basically delete as appropriate - the stories are a piece of piss to write."

Recent Burdens on Society include:

Students
The Uneducated
The Elderly
Teenagers
The Poor
The Unemployed
Public Servants
The Sick
The Disabled
Asylum Seekers
The Welsh
Scots
Yorkshire

A spokesman for NewsCorp denied that the organisation planned to add to the ranks of the unemployed by running a "journalists are a burden on newspapers" story.

Who's a pretty boy, then?

Since the new coalition government seized power, a sharp rise in parrot jokes has been recorded.

"It's odd," said Mimi Ditto, spokesperson for the Endangered Jokes Association (EJA), "and we can't quite put our finger on the exact cause, but jokes that haven't seen the light of day since Bernard Manning fell off his perch are making a comeback in a big way."

The EJA monitors and logs jokes told in comedy clubs, theatres, on television, radio and in print.

According to the EJA's records, this week alone has seen Barry Cryer dusting off an old joke about parrots and root vegetables on Radio 3; Andy Hamilton riffing about a lovebird in a brothel on Channel 4; Cristiano Ronaldo finally admitting he'd had a cockatoo; George Osborne denying any responsibility for an ailing budgie and Lembit Opik plugging his new comedy career in the Daily Mail by mentioning a singer in 'Wings' called Paul Macaw's knee feathering his nest with remixes."

"That last one wasn't funny - Lembit never is - but we logged it all the same," said Mimi. "We haven't seen such a flock of parrot jokes for many a year."

We asked the heads of the ConDem Alliance if they had a favourite joke to share with the members of Newsbiscuit.

"I was only joking when I said Mick was a big joke," said David Cameroon.

"He was only joking when he said I was a big joke," repeated Mick Clegg.

Labour's Dirty Tricks Campaign

Danny Alexander, son of the famous pipe band duo, today accused Labour of "laying stinkbombs around Whitehall."

Mr Alexander, sporting a sopping shirt and wet hair said, "And it didn't stop there. Harriet Harman asked me to smell the plastic carnation in her lapel."

Mick Clegg denied that his black eye was due to 'political differences' but blamed a small telescope loaned to him by Ed Balls. "He said it would give me an intimate view of the Horse Guards and I took him at his word."

Teresa May, sneezing and scratching wildly, said that several colleagues were nursing bruised fingers after accepting offers of chewing gum from the Miliband brothers. "I've been most shocked," she said, "by the biro they left on my desk."

The first cabinet meeting was disrupted by a series of loud farts. Several plastic skeletons have been found in cupboards. The chocolate dog turd left left in the Foreign Office was in particularly poor taste said an anonymous source, "Especially as everyone knows William holds Belgian chocolate in low regard."

An internal memo sent to all coalition MPs has advised against accepting humbugs or cigars from any Shadow Cabinet member. It ends with the message: "If Peter Mandleson invites you to inspect his ring, decline firmly but politely."

Wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, Alistair Darling chuckled, "It's just a bit of fun. David's already demonstrated he can take a joke, hasn't he?"

Artistically speaking ...

I've been swanning round all evening engaged in artistic pursuits, one of which involved four exploding cannons (note the precise spelling of this artillery considerately ensures no confusion within the Church of England which has enough problems thank you very much) that showered the very select (hem, hem) crowd in golden confetti and vanilla-scented fog. It passes for fun in this neck of the woods and all miles better than the whippet-whittling and cheese-rolling of my youth.

I intend to cram as many cannons into my social life as possible before the austerity measures kick in and museums have to start charging an arm and a leg (or, in the case of the Chapmans, a penis and a pudenda) for entrance. Who knows when you'll next be able to afford to view Napoleon's bed chamber or a head made of frozen human blood? Never mind the Minton tile collection.

Still, in our make-do-and-mend political agenda, I expect this Yorkshire-heavy cabinet (Eric-been-at-the-Pickles, Hague et al) with their flat feet and vowels  will insist on the reinstatement of whippet-whittling in the National Curriculum. And if whippets are whittled even just a little bit, they'll resemble Giacomettis and have some artistic merit so it doesn't do to be too pessimistic about the future. I've often heard it said (mainly in The Mirror) that the new cabinet are a bunch of artists.

Back to my Night of Art. Toulouse-Lautrec - now there was a man who knew a floozy or two (or forty-four). Yet he was ever so kind to them in his drawings and prints. (Not like Klimt with his less than quaint queynte complex. Did you know Adele Bloch-Bauer is in a state of rudity under her golden frock?) High kicks, opera glasses and flophouses; dashing lines, splashed reds and yellows, a thick swirl of black ink. Only a few hours have passed and already I am eager to revisit the exhibition; absinthe makes the heart - No! I cannot do it to you! Forgive me.

There's money in Art. In 2005, a Lautrec painting sold for £12.6 million. That would plug a few holes in the deficit so, as they appear to be on a winning streak, is it too late for Camclegg to enter The Turner Prize? Forty grand would be a sure start - especially as they are guaranteed first and third prize.

Why stop at art? Perhaps they could co-write a book? A heart-warming tale of triumph over adversity. Proof that it doesn't matter what unlucky hand life deals you: where there's a will - and a large inheritance - there's a way. Published by Faker & Faker, it will be a shoo-in for The Booker, T.S.Eliot, Costa and Nobel. The prize-money (they'll walk it) will go some way to addressing the pot plant and paperclip bill of the Cabinet Office. What have they - or we - got Toulouse?

More Breaking News

Chris Grayling has this morning been appointed Special Advisor to the Bed & Breakfast industry.

Chris Grayling clarified his new role in Government: "For far too long the British Bed & Breakfast industry has been the laughing stock of Europe. I've been appointed at the cost of £137,691 p.a. to bring some much-needed rigour into standards."

He admitted that he had thought long and hard before accepting this difficult position. "I have slept in my fair share of strange beds over the years," he said, "and there have been a number of times when I've been roughly woken in the night by a sudden protuberance."

Any B&B reaching chartermark status (The Golden Banger) will be inspected on a number of levels: mattress quality, quilted toilet tissue, potpourri and provision of Candlewick bedspreads.

Mr Grayling continued: "In some establishments, they're clearly playing hide the sausage. One flabby egg, some greasy fried bread and the chipolata's nowhere to be seen. Following the example of my great leader and his close friend's relentless internal probes into other governmental departments, I will be engaging in a series of intimate inspections to ensure that B&Bs across Britain can raise their flagpoles with pride!"

Overheard Conversation #19

Queen: So you're - ?

Aide (WHISPERS): The new Prime Minister.

Queen: Is he?

Aide (WHISPERS): Yes, Ma'am.

Queen: He's awfully pink. (LOUDLY) Wear a hat, young man, and avoid direct sunlight.

Cameron: Yes, Ma'am.

Queen: One bought ones wallpaper from your grandfather's shop. Excellent quality.

Cameron: With the greatest respect, Ma'am, I believe you're referring to George.

Queen: George?

Cameron: Osborne. He's the new Chancellor.

Queen: Chancellor?

Aide (WHISPERS): The Country's banker.

Queen: I hope he's washed his hands. So you can't give one a good deal on Lincrusta? The morning room is looking a little tired.

Cameron: I'll see what I can do, Ma'am.

Queen: Well, Mr. Clegg, one is awfully pleased that you're the Prime Minister. One wasn't terribly keen on that Cameron chap.

Aide (WHISPERS): Ma'am -

Queen: His mouth's far too small. Shifty eyes.

Aide (SLIGHTLY LOUDER): Ma'am -

Queen: And his wife's in Trade, you know.

Aide (SHOUTS): Ma'am!

Queen: Will you please stop interrupting - Mr. Clegg, one would be most pleased if you could sort out the fox-hunting. Philip's been dreadfully restless since that silly Mr. Blair banned it.

Cameron: I'll add it to the list, Ma'am.

Queen (MUSING): When one heard there was a Hung Parliament, ones heart leapt.

Cameron: It did, Ma'am?

Queen: For one glorious moment one thought horrid Dennis Skinner had finally been suspended. Literally.

Aide: Ma'am -

Queen: The man's a menace. Each time one opens Parliament, he's chancing his arm as a comedian - you're not funny, are you Mr. Clegg?

Cameron: Frankly, I'm  Dav-

Queen: Yes, well first name terms will suffice, Frankly, but you'll still need to call one Your Royal Highness.

Aide (WHISPERS): Eastenders in five minutes.

Queen: Off you trot, Mr. Clegg, and try not to break anything.

Roll credits

The Victorian Bride

Players
Catherine - Mick Clogg
Linton - Rabid Cameroon
Heathcliff - Gorgon Brain

The story so far ...

Catherine wishes to marry Linton as the match will give her status despite her innate attraction to the dark and brooding Heathcliff. Mrs Linton (Margaret Thatcher in a rare cameo appearance) teaches Catherine how to be a 'proper lady'.

 Heathcliff (dark and brooding) seeks revenge on all those who have wronged him.

Location - the cellars and corridors of Westminster, behind doors with an inordinate amount of Noises Off ...