Once we entered Downing Street a No. 10 protocol adviser took Vic upstairs to show her the facilities in the private flat. ‘That sofa’s gotta go,’ said her ladyship. ‘So has Simon Case,’ I said. The protocol officer was shocked. ‘So new, and almost without a stain,’ he protested. More than can be said for the Cabinet Secretary. For the first few hours it was easy to keep the Prime Minister busy with congratulatory calls from world leaders. He was fine once we reminded him not to shout at them like an Englishman addressing foreigners. Emmanuel Macron was overfamiliar, Giorgia Meloni tearful – it seems she had a hot pash for Rishi Sunak – and the chap from Reykjavik went all glacial (Icelandic speciality) when we refused to talk about fish quotas. Joe Biden drifted off into a stream of consciousness about Donald Trump. The White House switchboard had confused him by saying ‘Sir Starmer on the line for you, Mr President’ and Joe thought it was something to do with Stormy Daniels. I also arranged for the PM to waste a good couple of hours with the regional mayors. Bunch of bozos. You might as well spend time with the mayor of Trumpton. Andy Burnham’s eyes dart and smoulder when he is with the new Prime Minister. You can see him thinking: ‘That should be me!’ We’re going to have to watch Burnham. And Sadiq Khan. Mind you, his personal approval ratings are so dreadful, they should prevent any ambitions. The more Khan goes about the place saying how wonderful Keir is, the more we need to count the spoons.
The Prime Minister has installed a looking glass opposite his new desk. He keeps checking his quiff, laughing to himself and throwing John Travolta Saturday Night Fever shapes. Don’t worry, I will soon knock this bumptiousness out of the twerp.
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