Confessions Of A Minister

Sunday
So I'm back in, and who cares if it was only after the 74th count. I'm back in parliament - and that's all that matters. And - to my eternal satisfaction, I also creamed the ex-wife. Not without the odd panic attack, I'll admit, but oh the glowing satisfaction of blowing her a giant raspberry and giving her two fingers in the counting hall when it was announced that I had been elected and she hadn't. Go back to your piddling little local council! It's about your level.

Monday
Spend the day at HQ accepting congratulations and trying to catch Lawrence's eye. He'll obviously have to give me a major ministry. After all, I am one of the most senior, if ever-youthful, members of his government and without a single blemish on my character. So what's it to be Lol? The foreign ministry? I'd like the foreign ministry, all that first class freebie travel. Or maybe it'll be public works. I could clean up in the ministry that used to be known as Lorry's bank. So here I am Lawrence, ready and willing to once more serve my country.

Tuesday
I have a meeting with Lawrence tomorrow morning at 9 sharp. He's putting his Cabinet together and I am one of the first ministers to be summoned to Castille.

So I spend the day in excited anticipation of a new chapter in my glittering political career. The more I think about it, the more I fancy the idea of the foreign ministry. I mean, I'm ideally suited for it: I speak four languages, I patronise black people and I've never ever been airsick. Yes, that would suit me nicely.

Later to V's, where I arrive a little early. V drawls: "So what else is new?"

Wednesday
Nothing? What do you mean nothing? And what's all this mealy mouthed rubbish? "Thank you for all your loyal service to the party and the country. But we have to move on and the Cabinet needs new blood." Damn it, Lawrence, I am minister class, for goodness' sake! I am one of your longest serving and, ahem, most efficient ministers. You can't just boot me out of the Cabinet like a dog that's messed in the sitting room. I have years of public screwing - I mean service - left in me. Before you fire me, Lawrence, think! And anyway I need the prestige and I have a mortgage and a mistress to support.

Thursday
Still fuming, after having been tossed aside like an out-of-fashion Armani suit. New blood? Wet behind the ears more like. I haven't been this angry since V plugged my iPod into the mains and tried to use it to shave her legs. I am so livid I even contemplate crossing the floor. But the prospect of five years co-habiting with that lot is even less appealing than kicking my heels on the backbenches. How dare Lawrence not give me a Cabinet post? Besides, what am I going to do with myself every Monday morning?

Friday
a.m: Sarcastic text from the ex-wife, who crows: "Seems I'm not the only one losing out. I expect a seat on a local council would seem quite attractive to someone just booted out of the Cabinet." Never! I have my pride and I'll be back, never fear.

Late to V's: Only to find a note pinned to the door of her/my flat in Port Tomasso reading: So long, loser. If you need me I'll be in Strasbourg in my luxury apartment, bought for me by my friend, the attractive and extremely rich Euro MP. Don't bother calling or texting, my mobile is being screened for stalkers.

Saturday
Spend the morning contemplating suicide, but dismiss the notion on the grounds that it might hurt... and I have a very low pain threshold.

Nil desperandum. Tomorrow I'll give Lawrence a ring, maybe he can find me a nice little ambassadorship somewhere like Monaco or Tahiti. I quite fancy that.

I'd prefer the presidency but Louis seems to have gazumped me on that one. Politics! It's a filthy old game.