Dilyn the dog Dilyn the dog

Dilyn the dog’s Downing Street diary (as told to Rod Liddle)

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I heard them rowing again this morning, look you. I had just completed my first dump of the day in Allegra Stratton’s handbag when I heard their voices spiralling upwards, the Man and the Woman. They’re not in a good place right now, which is fine by me. A plague on both their houses. Mimsy, woke Carrie, who purchased me under the mistaken impression I was a Peke who would lie gently across her bloody lap all day. And that shambling albino wreck, kind of half-dog half-man, who apparently runs the country, when his wife lets him. Money seemed to be at the heart of their disagreement — it often is. She likes spending it, he is somewhat averse, especially on stuff like furnishings: she complains, in a shrill manner, about the taste of the previous occupier who appears to have been a man named John Lewis. Carrie bought an opulent rug recently for some humongous sum, a ghastly emerald and gold creation handwoven by impecunious navvies from the Maghreb. It has been much improved by the rich brown streaks I have added by shuffling my arse across it on a daily basis. Iechyd da, etc.

The lies, the many lies. The first is that I was ‘rescued’ by these highborn and kindly benefactors from a dog refuge in Wales because I was about to be put down on account of a gammy jaw. Balls. My jaw was just fine until I entered Downing Street. Then, early on, Carrie had some of her friends round for a ‘girly kitchen supper’, which turned out to be a noisome vegetarian meze prepared by a mincing halfwit. I was dozing on the sofa when a haggard and porcine ex-deb weighing 200lb called ‘Pippa’ deposited her entire gargantuan torso on my head. Everyone in the room heard the crack as my jawbone snapped in half and I woke up with a tongue lolling out at 90 degrees to my mouth, despite Sting’s Greatest Hits playing on the deck.

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