Why everyone's acting outraged I don't know. It's either suck him off or get pregnant

YOU can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. And you can’t deliver a revitalised, youthful, radical Downing Street without sucking dick. 

Yes, I’m embarrassed my blowjob’s all over social media. But everyone knows with Boris you’ve got two choices: go down or get impregnated.

It was way too early for that. He was still married, and he’s got a dismal track record of making honest women of his out-of-wedlock babymammas. But, long-term, that blowjob worked out.

If it hadn’t been for my sacrifice he’d be nowhere near number 10. Without my injection of verve and relatability into his leadership camp he’d have been wiped up by Hunt.

And how could he stand there and attack Starmer as an Islington lawyer when he was married to one? The dead wood needed clearing. And so, selflessly, for the people of Britain, I knelt down and did what needed to be done.

Of course he loves getting his dick sucked. Big Dog’s never happier than when he’s getting all of the pleasure and doing none of the work. And his firm anti-contraception stance means it’s the only way you’re getting out unfertilised. Even that cow Arcuri knew that.

Obviously I’d have preferred Gavin Williamson not to walk in at that precise moment, but he’s such a bitchy little gossip I knew the news would soon be all over Parliament, clearing my route to the top. He got his knighthood, so who’s complaining?

In a very real way, the bold, powerful Britain we live in today started then, on that couch, with that ejaculation. If I hadn’t seized the initiative with both hands we might never have got our full Brexit. The people of this country owe me so much.

‘That’s all very well,’ he said, ‘but how come I never get one these days?’ ‘Because we’ve got two fucking kids,’ I said.

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Cooking chicken by sunlight is free! Summer money-saving tips from a penny-pinching expert

WARM weather sees some get out the paddling pool or barbecue. But to me, it’s a time to stop paying through the nose for gas when the sun is right there. 

Solar ovens are a waste of cash. Just position tinfoil and leave a chicken in the magnified rays for a couple of hours. Unlike many roasts it won’t dry out and stays good and moist, helped by a convenient rain shower.

There are drawbacks, like ending up in hospital with gut pain that just won’t stop, but the kids recovered quickly enough to enjoy six solid meals free from the NHS and during that week they weren’t at home wearing out the carpet.

Speaking of kids, do they ever stop pestering when the ice-cream van comes around? I won’t waste money on mass-produced ice-cream loaded with sugar and mostly air, so I came up with a healthier alternative.

I told my kids Mr Whippy is a child murderer who’ll keep them in a cage until he eats them alive. Now when we hear his chimes they hide in wardrobes, crying silently. Problem solved – economically.

Of course, the British summer is unreliable, but rain can be the money-saver’s friend.

Rather than using expensive tap water I fill empty bottles on days of high precipitation using a funnel, taking a tip from survivors of shipwrecks left drifting on the high seas. Avoids wear-and-tear on tap washers. That’s 14p a year you’re getting back.

And don’t despair if you’ve had to cancel your summer holiday. For as long as I can remember I’ve been treating my family to a beach holiday at home, by which I mean my own home.

Shin over the fence of any construction project or the local nursery school at 2am and collect sand. Because this is a common mineral you can take as much as you want and it’s legal.

Spread it across the bathroom floor to make a beach, fill the bath to make the sea, trap a seagull and stick it in there and you’ve got all the joys of Ilfracombe without some vile individual leaving a turd in a Burger King box.

It stays there all summer, even when the children’s visitation fortnight’s over, while I relax in a deckchair making the noises of waves with my mouth, occasionally adding a pinch of salt for that sea air feel.

I can’t imagine anything more relaxing, if the fucking seagull would just shut up for a minute. I’m not feeding it sardines. They’re my tea.