Subject: The Boris Premiership

Rory Sahib!

I barely see you these days as you are on your grand tour of constituencies – Winchester to Wigan and Cardiff to Cromer – chatting up the locals and holding forth in Urdu and Sanskrit!

Lady Mary and my grandchildren are most impressed, and say you come across as an honest tribal elder. Trouble is, old boy – and I told this to Soames who is one of your supporters – it gets votes from other parties but few from the rolling-eyed zealots in ours.

Never mind: you seem to have enjoyed yourself and it will have brought back happy memories of trekking across Iraq and Afghanistan.

Whilst you have been on manoeuvres, we poor old backbenchers are being pestered by all the other candidates. Text messages, emails and being ambushed in the lobby by thrusting colleagues who, until a month ago, had never passed the time of day. I put my head down and head for the Smoking Room.

I have to say I find the whole business most depressing: a version of the Wacky Races and all kinds of promissory notes not underwritten by HM Treasury. Young Hunt doesn’t seem to know his China from Japan, Hancock is auditioning for “Britain’s Got Talent”, the fragrant Esther is resurrecting Lady T, and Sajid is busy making videos.

And then there is Boris. Things must be serious because he is being held under house arrest and only allowed to speak to the Daily Telegraph who have him under contract for a million euros a year. His campaign team are issuing all kinds of post dated promissory notes – both Rees-Mogg and the Trussette as candidates, God help us, to be Chancellor of the Exchequer. You and I know that the only thing Boris can be relied upon is to let you down on every occasion!

Anyway, we now have the charade of MPs voting for the next two weeks and then our activists. The poor devil who wins will then face the same dead end as old Mrs May. Then the proverbial brown stuff will hit the fan.

It’s hard to think that only a week has gone by since the State Visit of that awful American who somehow won the presidential election. For the State Dinner, Soames and I dressed up with medels and regalia, went to the Palace early to sink a few tumblers of firewater with Willy Peel – Soames brother-in-law and Lord High Executioner. No sign of the Duchess of Sussex or Phil the Greek, neither of whom can stand D Trump Esquire. I wondered whether they had invited Corbyn round for the evening?

Apart from the civil service, who has been running the country for the past week? The Chamber is dead apart from the Speaker opining on everything and dropping bitchy comments about colleagues he dislikes. My whip said the office was neutral for the leadership contest – tell that to the Marines!

Soames and I managed to get away to Epsom for two days and were surrounded by members of the Turf Club desperate to know the odds on the PM stakes. I suggested a few pounds sterling on Mr Pumpkin our killer cat.

Hope to see you next week and Soames and I will take you for a seven course blow out at that new Afghan Restaurant in Jermyn Street, eccentrically named “The Old Etonian”.

Yours till lights out,