I despair. All this nonsense in the papers about Sam’s £300,000 bonus totally misses the point of everything we’ve been trying to explain for the past year.
MONDAY
I despair. All this nonsense in the papers about Sam’s £300,000 bonus totally misses the point of everything we’ve been trying to explain for the past year. For the last time, all you Thatcherites at the back, wealth is not about money. Wealth is not City bonuses or share windfalls. Wealth is the smile on the face of a child who gets to see Daddy before bedtime. Wealth is the smell of organic chicken slow-roasting in the oven of an environmentally sound yet affordable starter home. Wealth is the solar panel on the roof of an inner-city state school, where middle-class families are happy for their children to mix with local street urchins (bless them!), safe in the knowledge that love will find a way to stop them mugging everyone for their mobile phones.
Are we getting it now? When we talk about wealth creation, we don’t mean wealth in the nasty, bad-taste-in-the-mouth, old-fashioned sense of the word, i.e. money. We mean wellbeing. Now maybe all you slowcoaches will finally realise why we are not going to have tax cuts. It wouldn’t achieve a thing, except give people a load of horrid cash which would only make them really unhappy. As I’m sure poor Sam is today as she ponders her terrible burden.
TUESDAY
Pleased to see the DD podcast is getting rave reviews. Poppy says when they cut out all the times he said ‘My name’s David Davis’, there were only two minutes of film left. This was reduced to one minute when they edited out the kids shouting, ‘Who are you, anyway?’ and DD shouting back, ‘I’m the next Home Secretary, so watch out or I’ll have you locked up’ and them shouting back, ‘Yeah? You and whose army?’ and him shouting, ‘You want some, hoodie-boy?’ and so on.
More importantly â” tomorrow is the Big Day and I am crux of special ops celebration project! It’s all Nigel’s brilliant idea. I will burst forth from a triangular-shaped cake singing ‘Happy Birthday, Mr Cameron!’ in the style of Marilyn singing to JFK.
WEDNESDAY
Whoever fixed a huge sugar statue of Polly Toynbee on the top of the cake blocking my escape hatch should be sacked. Certain people may think it’s a laughing matter but it was nearly a medical emergency. Can you imagine the sheer claustrophobic horror of being stuck inside a cake? Everyone listening to me shouting and banging until I managed to punch my way out, bursting the straps of my lime-coloured Underwear For Humanity bikini so I had to hold the damn thing together as I attempted to sing. Dave was totally flummoxed: ‘Good god, is that you, Tammy? You’re a bit flat. Note-wise, I mean, ha ha â” in every other sense, not flat at all …oh dear….’ It is not a pleasant thing to be the first person on the planet to reduce the Greatest Man since Gandhi to a gibbering wreck.
THURSDAY
Maybe things not so bad. Dave apparently feeling much better today after spending some quiet time in Oxfordshire with his pigs â” well, they’re the neighbour’s pigs but he likes to sit and talk to them when things get a bit much. Plus Jed took me aside. Says I totally humiliated myself in the name of a daft stunt: ‘I admire you, Lightwater. You’re going all the way.’
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