Firm, fair, magnetically attractive: the Dominic Raab I know, by Rishi Sunak with Dominic Raab

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s acting prime minister: 

‘“I’M reading a lot in the media about a man I don’t recognise. A bully, a boor, a petty tyrant. But this cannot be my friend Dominic Raab.” That kind of shit,’ Raab confirms. 

He’s in my office with one of his mates watching the door ‘to make sure none of Truss’s fucking lot’ interrupt us, which I find powerfully reassuring and not at all intimidating. 

Heartened, I carry on where he left off: ‘The Dominic Raab I am proud to call a friend and colleague is a gentleman. Polite to women, deferential to his elders, always open to suggestions from his dedicated team.’ ‘Fuck them,’ Dom says. ‘Don’t write that down.’ 

‘I’m not really sure this works,’ I venture carefully, as Dom’s friend appears to nasally ingest a small amount of medicine from a corner of his debit card. ‘Who are we trying to convince? The lawyer?’ 

‘Because well, lawyers, they’re not really open to being sweet-talked when they’ve got eight formal complaints and multiple witnesses.’ ‘Be a lot more if we hadn’t had words with a few,’ Dom says. 

‘And I’m not fucking resigning. Put that in your glowing testimonial, actually don’t. Just because Nadhim pissed off quietly doesn’t mean I will. Priti survived and she used a spad as a human dartboard. My cruelty’s more psychological.’ 

‘So we’re writing this for…?’ ‘You’re writing this,’ Dom says, leaning over the desk, forehead vein pulsing, ‘so when he comes out with his little report we can hand him something. And tucked in the pages will be either £100K or a death threat. Not sure which.’ 

‘Marvellous,’ I say, after letting out a short, involuntary cry which I effortlessly disguise as a high cough. ‘Well, should carry on. Mr Raab is courteous, gentle and never loses his temper, even when provoked.’ 

‘Are you making me sound like a poof?’ Dom asks. 

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The cradle of civilisation and they can't do proper chips: the gammon food critic goes Greek

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who thinks that Jeremy Corbyn would have had us sending tanks to his mate Putin

GREECE? Philosphers in robes, few fancy gods, completely fucked their economy joining the EU. Notice there’s nothing about food in there, do you? 

That’s because, with a largely goats-on-rocks-based agriculture, it’s vile. But I’m off to Corfu on an over-50s holiday in May, and as a renowned food critic I need to know my tzatziki from my taramasalata.

First surprise? No doner kebabs on the menu. I raise this with the waiter, who curtly informs me they’re Turkish, not Greek. Like there’s any difference, I tell him, but apparently they’re not exactly mates. It’s a good start. I like a country that’s not afraid to hate its neighbours.

The starters, or mezze as they call them, all sound hideous. Olives? Like teabagging the devil’s testicles. Then taramasalata, pureed fish eggs dyed a lurid and unappealing shade of pink. They’re taking the piss.

Rice wrapped in vine leaves? Courgette balls? What, Plato couldn’t take a moment out of contemplating to say “this tastes like shit, Demitrious? And don’t even think of frying that bloody octopus”?

I go for the Greek-style fish-and-chips. Why bugger about? Except they have. The cod’s stiff and salty, the chips are as mean and thin as McDonald’s, and it’s being served with this dip called skordalia which is mashed potato with an industrial quantity of garlic.

Garlic. Fucking garlic. With fish and chips. If they haven’t got the basic intelligence to know fish and chips means ketchup it’s no wonder they’re the sick man of Europe.

Smashing my plate on the floor in the traditional manner, I order another bottle of Mythos beer, only to be roundly bollocked by an angry moustachioed man who says the Greeks don’t smash plates. Who is he kidding?

My explanation that it’s the only thing anyone knows about his crappy country falls on deaf ears. I show him how it’s done with the side plates and he gets menacing, but as I tell him it takes more than knocking back six bottles of olive oil a day to be the Mafia.

Long story short, I’m not going there again. You try and embrace these people’s primitive cultures and they throw it back in your fucking face. I’m cancelling that holiday.