It's understandable Gillian doesn't feel appreciated. It's because she isn't, and that's because she's crap

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, the prime minister laser-focused on the now, not the decisions made as chancellor in the dim and distant past

I CANNOT possibly condemn my education secretary for feeling underappreciated. She very much isn’t, but that’s entirely down to her failings in the role. 

It’s also true that I can’t, in all fairness, blame her for the issue of RAAC in schools. But I’m going to regardless because otherwise it’s my fault and it can’t be, due to my being the prime minister.

It’s a shame she has to go – not yet, but when the crisis gets worse – because she’s the only self-made working-class member of the cabinet. On the other hand, it’ll be nice not to have her around because she’s the only self-made working-class member of the cabinet.

‘They’re doing fuck all Rishi,’ Gillian says, thankfully over speakerphone. We’re on a private jet to the G20 in India, or ‘a proper country’ as my wife calls it.

‘I’m out here,’ she continues, ‘busting my arse trying to fix this shit. And these lazy twat schools aren’t even willing to pay for their own surveys. When they’re putting little kiddies’ lives in danger. That’s no better than Brady and Hindley to me.’

‘They say there’s no money. But you said you’ve given them tons.’ ‘That was,’ I explain delicately, ‘more of a public-facing statement. In fact they don’t have any.’

‘Well hold a Harvest Fayre then,’ she said. ‘Shake the tin in assembly. Either way I’ve done all I can, so I’m washing my hands of a clear conscience. And all this bollocks about my other half getting rich from it? It’s piss-all. He makes all his money in weapons.’

‘Thanks Gillian,’ I say decisively, hanging up, already looking forward to what a pleasure her resignation letter will be. In fact I might make a start on it today.

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Hummus for butter and perverts in bathrobes: The gammon food critic visits a health spa

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who thinks Luis Rubiales might as well have grabbed her tits for all the fuss there’s been

THE older you are, the harder it is to shrug shit off. For example I had a bit of a basic week – a Chinese takeaway and eight cans of lager every night – and I felt terrible. 

So I thought what the hell, I’ll use that voucher my ex-wife’s cousin sent here in error and book myself a night at a health spa. Sweat out forty years of poison in one session, or I’m demanding my money back.

Besides, it’s bound to be crawling with bored middle-aged women looking for a discreet fuck. What happens at Champneys stays at Champneys and all that.

I check in for lunch and ask where the bar is. Raised eyebrows and a curt explanation they only serve alcohol at dinner in the evenings. Not a good start.

And once in the buffet queue I discover that fuck me, they’re not joking with the whole healthy eating thing. No steak. No chips. Just plain grilled chicken, endless salads and 500 kinds of coleslaw.

I pile my plate high, but grilled mackerel, though. Hideous, oily shite that smells like a Frenchman’s bike seat. If this is what you have to eat to keep heart-healthy I’d rather die in a tsunami of cholesterol.

Everyone’s walking around in bathrobes, as advertised, and probably nude underneath. Which forces me to keep my Speedos on beneath mine so I’ve got something to strap my erection down.

I expected my afternoon masseuse to be a gorgeous Swedish blonde called Helga, saying a heavily-accented ‘naughty boy!’ when I grab her arse. Fuck no. It’s a strapping brute of a woman who looks like a warder from Cell Block H, complete with five o’clock shadow.

Goes at my back like she’s tenderising a steak. I know you hate men, love, but I haven’t done anything yet. If I asked for a happy ending she’d yank my cock off and laugh.

Evening rolls around, as does dinner, and I’m starving. Guess what the wholegrain, healthy and frankly small bread rolls come with? Hummus. Lurpak’s contraband here.

The chicken breast with seasonal vegetables marches in with kale, steamed cauliflower and green beans, which will have me farting like a Holstein Friesian all night. The plates are decorated with calorie counts. As food goes, it’s closer to dying.

And the dessert menu? More like a desert. Essentially I’d be chewing scented foam. Still hungry, I head for a quick fag outside. It’s pissing down and my complimentary slippers are ruined but it doesn’t matter, you have to give them back when you leave anyway.

Breakfast? Muesli, fruit, not a bacon rasher in sight, and plant milk in the tea. Now excuse my ignorance, but how in the name of Chinese buggery do you milk a plant? Where’s the udders on an almond?

Pointedly whistling the theme from The Great Escape, I order a taxi to the nearest Wetherspoons. So that’s good health, is it? I’m surprised I fucking survived.