"Why don't we do this every week?" he asked just now. "Think of all the good things people currently miss: my thoughts on Free Trade, my dealings with the Elves of Rockingham Forest, the latest sighting of the Rutland Water Monster...."
Believe me, that's not going to happen. At least Meadowcroft seems to have forgiven him for the incident with the fly whisk.
Sunday
As it does to any right-minded Englishman or, indeed, Englishwoman, to me Sunday luncheon means a roast joint. Today the table simply groans with what Cook serves forth: a baron of beef, horseradish, Yorkshire pudding, a selection of the finest produce of Meadowcroft’s vegetable garden, a spotted dick and custard and a ripe Stilton to finish, all washed down with some rare vintages I have had brought up from the cellars.
Would you believe that there is a cabinet minister who will have lunched, not on roast beef, but an ostrich’s anus? I am told the culture secretary simply cannot get enough of it. Now, an ostrich I met during my stay at the zoo - a peppery fellow, if I am honest - told me that all his species are blessed with long claws and a powerful kick, so much so that they can kill or at least disembowel a person with one blow. To be frank, if an ostrich caught someone sneaking behind it with culinary designs on its anus, I should not blame it.
- When Penny and Kemi banged Rishi’s head on the floor
- The Revd Hughes has taken refuge in the crypt beneath St Asquith’s
- Every Tuesday evening at a discreet establishment in Roehampton
- There I swing from bough to bough
- I strongly advise you to give your bargepole the day off
- Distinctly miffed little girls in tutus
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