Thursday July 7, 2016

I’m up at 5am writing this, because this is going to be the most exciting day of my life.  Nick (Boles) has done a great job of rounding up Crabb and Goyle’s supporters to vote for me instead and sent a brilliant text that should pick off the fringes of Theresa’s supporters.  Nobody really wants her or Andrea for PM, do they?

Phoned Nick at 7am to ask how the voting was going.

“It hasn’t started yet,” he told me, which seems to be a pretty negative attitude. I asked him what happens if I get all of the votes in this round. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, eh?” he tells me, “You’ve been a pretty high-profile government figure for a while now – a lot of people know who you are and what you’ve done.”

“But that’s good, isn’t it?” I ask him.  Unfortunately the line drops then and it goes straight to voicemail when I call him back. He must have gone into a tunnel.

Moped around the house for a bit, but it’s getting on Sarah’s nerves.

“Can’t you at least do something interesting that I can write a column about?” she snapped.

“It’s 12:30,” I replied, “I’m going to make a sandwich.”

“That’ll do.” she said, happily.

Nearly three in the afternoon and Nick’s still in that tunnel! I’ve been phoning him every 3 minutes since 7am and he hasn’t picked up once.

Friday July 8th, 2016

Sarah wakes me up at 10:30 to ask if I’m going to the office.

“Why?” I ask, “Nobody wants me.”

“You’re still Lord Chancellor and Secretary of State for Justice.” she reminds me.  That cheers me up a bit.

“You’re right, I am! They need me!”

“They certainly do…prison officers have staged an unofficial walk-out.”

I pull the covers back over my head.

Saturday July 9th, 2016

Andy the handyman is in today fixing the leaking tap in the en suite.  Sarah hangs around the whole time, hoping that he’ll do something Polish, so she can use it to form her opinion on immigration, but he mainly listens, nods and gets on with things.

As he’s leaving I ask if he can fit our new cooker that’s arriving on Monday. He looks a bit baffled and I apologise for not being able to speak Polish.  He looks around shiftily then discloses that he’s actually from Dagenham. When I ask him, astonished, about his surname – Szymanski – he explains that “everyone expects Poles these days, don’t they?”

He tells me you have to be a registered Corgi fitter to install a gas oven. I tell him that’s Euro-babble and that it must be basically the same as plumbing.  He says he’ll think about it while he’s having a tab.

Sunday July 10th, 2016

Angela (Leadsom) calls round for a chat. She talks about how important it is for her to win the leadership and have the right people behind her.

She grips my arm far too tightly and tells me, “God’s told me he needs me to win this, Michael. It’s his will. You understand how important that is, don’t you?”

I nod and promise her my support.

“Your support?” she laughs, “Bless you, Michael, but you’re going to publicly support Theresa,” (she almost spits the name), “If you even smile in my direction I’ll make you Junior Minister for Brexit, under Boris!”

As she’s leaving I ask if she knows a Corgi-registered gas fitter.

“I am one,” she tells me, “Time served. Want me to have a look?”

I politely decline.

Monday July 11, 2016

There’s a knock at the door at about 10pm and I open it to find Boris standing there, looking pretty dishevelled. Over a brandy he tells me his story.

“Confession time, old man,” he begins, “You know that trick where you put dog dirt in a paper bag, set fire to it and leave it on someone’s doorstep?” I nod. “Well I was going to do that to you.”

“Did you think better of it?” I ask.

“All went a bit wrong, Grover…my car’s a burnt-out shell.”

“That’s terrible!” I gasp.

“Not really. It was a government car, and I booked it out in Liam Fox’s name. I don’t think we’ll be hearing any more from him for a while.”

“Liam who?” I ask and we laugh until we cry.

Didn’t take that long, really.

Tuesday July 12, 2016

The tide’s turning, two bits of good news today! Not-Polish Andy’s wounds are mainly superficial and he’s going to make a full recovery and Andras, the Hungarian gardener from Hounslow, reckons he can “have a go” at rebuilding the kitchen wall! He’s had a look and estimated fifty quid, all in, to do the job.

10pm: Boris still asleep on the chaise lounge, he’s been there all day. The only time he woke up was when Pointless came on; we scored 200 on the first round.

“Are we pointless, Bojo?” I asked him, but he’d already fallen asleep again.

Wednesday July 13, 2016

Theresa called by to discuss my support for her leadership campaign.

“Keep your piggy little face out of my campaign, Gove!” were her opening words, as she swept into the house, looking for a puppy to kick.

“Keep your mouth shut, say how great Andrea is and distance yourself from me and I’ll see about letting you have a quiet life on the back-benches.” She spun on her heel and put her face right up to mine and whispered, “Step out of line once and I’ll stick you back in Education and eradicate the budget for your police protect!”

With that she pushed passed me and stormed out, pausing only for her and Sarah to share their usual hiss at each other.

Thursday July 14, 2016

The Brexit strain is starting to show on Sarah. “I’m going out and by the time I’m back I want you shaved and with some pants on!” she snapped at me, as I was eating my breakfast/lunch Pot Noodle.

“Sure you don’t want one?” I asked Boris, “There’s a curry flavour one left.”

“AND I WANT THAT FUCKWIT GONE AS WELL!” yelled Sarah from the hallway.

Boris fixed his eyes on me and appeared to be about to say something when Hounslow Andras came in to tell me that he’d have to up his quote.  Realising that my negotiation skills may be required by my country in the dark days ahead I took him to task over this.”

“Zorry Mr Gove,” he explained in his wandering faked accent, “But I haf only done zee first tree courses and I am spending nearly fifty pounds just on Super-glue zo far!”

“Are you just gluing the bricks together?”

“Yez, it zeems to be vorking.”

“Fair enough…shall we call it £100?”

“Probably nearer £500, mate.”

“OK”

By the time Sarah got back I’d sorted myself out, turfed out Boris and got the place tidied up. Andras had knocked off for the day, but his crazy-paving approach to a wall looks pretty good and its slope means that our kitchen is a bit bigger than it used to be.”

After a couple of glasses of Waitrose prosecco Sarah got a bit fruity, but my general melancholy and her note taken curtailed any real passion.

I read her notes as she went to clean herself up.

“What’s ‘He prodded at my ham-sandwich with the skill and enthusiasm of a job-seeker under threat of sanctions’ supposed to mean?” I asked.

“Honestly, Michael, don’t keep abreast of the zeitgeist any more?” she queried.

Dear Diary, I’m not sure I ever did. Honestly, I doubt anybody has been made more miserable than me by this Brexit nonsense.  Still, it’s early days, I suppose.