You say there's nothing I can do to make this worse, Sir Keir. But I'm trying my best

YOUR agents say there’s nothing I can do to make the situation worse and I should sit tight, Sir Keir. But they don’t know me like you do. 

I’m a major asset. I’ve got a skillset beyond their comprehension. There’s nothing I can’t ruin if I turn my mind to it. I’ve even turned Rees-Mogg against me.

It takes a lot to be on the Luddite side of an argument with Jacob, but by banning solar farms for no reason whatsoever I’ve wound up the farmers in his Somerset seat and the investors in his hedge fund.

‘What exactly is the issue, prime minister?’ he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose in a way that in Leeds would be guaranteed to get them stamped on. ‘Why are we interfering with landowners’ right to earn money from their own land?’

‘It’s against nature,’ I said. ‘Power? From the sun? Power comes from deep beneath the earth, where it’s extracted by multinationals. Taking the profit out of energy is anti-capitalist.’ That shut him up.

Great seeing you at PMQs, by the way. Hope I wasn’t too impressive, effortlessly turning every question against you by making it about the energy guarantee. You didn’t seem rattled.

And the 1922 Committee meeting went well, by which I mean terminally badly. An hour of almost total silence. I repeated the same performance using the same energy line, and they had no answer for it.

Afterwards I popped to the tearoom to reassure MPs there’d be no U-turns, that Kwarteng had my full confidence, that we’d still be making all our tax cuts while not touching spending. They looked just about ready to shit.

Oh, and we’re still on course for a massive battle with the EU and US over Northern Ireland and I’m officially labelling China a threat for the first time. But I dunno. I still feel I could do so much worse.

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Five kinky places to have sex that will make you run screaming home

WANT to appreciate your bed? Push yourself into a sexual experience in a public location and thrill to the fear of being charged with indecent exposure. 

Everyone loves to remember that time they were so horny they did it in a back alley by the bins. Memory filters out the stink and turns murmurs into imprecations of love, not ‘If my arse gets put on Reddit by a teenager with an iPhone you’re fucking dead.’

Your slightly damp bedroom will become a palace of pleasure after uncomfortably boning in these locations:

In a car

Are you a horny teenager with nowhere else to go? Because if you do have anywhere else to go: go there. You’ll soon stop feeling young and carefree when you cry out not in ecstasy but because the seatbelt socket’s embedded in your knee.

It turns out cars aren’t big and you’re not flexible. Expect less ‘handprint dragging down a steamed window’ and more accidentally setting off the rear windscreen wiper. Plus your 10-year-old Volvo S40’s suspension doesn’t need more challenges.

On a plane

The Mile High Club? Is the height the challenge, or shagging in the tiniest toilet in the world? Have a high gag threshold not for deep-throat oral, but because the corpulent bastard who immediately preceded you fouled it on an elephantine scale.

Enjoy trying to achieve penetration in a space smaller than an Ikea wardrobe in full knowledge there’s an air steward eight inches away heating piri-piri chicken who thinks you’re tragically het and wishes you’d waited until Venice.

In the bath

What could be more romantic than scented candles, soft music and sex amid the suds? Wedging yourself into a cooling and overflowing tub, your boyfriend in the tepid water while your teeth chatter sexily above, discovering the hard way that soapy water is very much not lube? You’d rather shag in the shower.

In the shower

Until you try to shag in the shower, and that’s not great either, is it? The angle’s never right, glass screens aren’t up to supporting two thrusting humans and whoever’s not in the spray is freezing. And water? Still not lube. You’re coming out of this with thrush.

On the beach

Like the cocktail, sex on the beach is overrated and a young woman’s game. Two choices: sand or pebbles, both of which will fuck you far more royally than your husband can manage. If it’s not chafing sand in the fanny it’s stone grinding against your back. Either of which puts further off climaxing than the scent of sun-baked dog piss next to your head.

On a windswept moor

A grand, romance-novel fantasy, reliving the great romance of Cathy and Heathcliff from the Kate Bush song Wuthering Heights. You’ve not read the book version. But what’s under your arse as you recline with Brontean abandon at this desolate spot? Heather? Bracken? Some other kind of scratchy bastard?

And the wildness not only freezes your exposed tits off, but carries off personal belongings. If you’ve been embarrassed walking past hikers in all their North Face shit when you’re in trainers, imagine doing it in a crop top chasing your knickers. Right, you’ve done that. From now on fuck at home.