So the White House announced that my phone has never and will never be hacked. Cheers guys. I’d say it’s the mark of a real friend to know that they absolutely won’t hack your phone. Rebecca Brookes take note please.

I mean obviously there is some concern that they have to reassure you of it in the first place but let’s not get too fixated on that. It’s like when you find out your friend has done something to another friend that you’re sort of uncomfortable with but you don’t say anything because they didn’t do it to you. And then next time you all hang out as a group it’s just awkward because everyone’s aware of what’s happened and you can’t move past it until everyone signs a written statement saying they will try to rebuild trust. We’ve all been there, am I right?

Of course most friendship groups aren’t also massive economic markets on the endless verge of collapse, so the analogy sort of breaks down a bit at this point. Having said that, the Common Agricultural Policy is sort of like working for an organic veg company and giving your friends ‘mates rates’. Anyway, I prefer to stick with the metaphor because, quite frankly, it makes everything seem a lot less scary.


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Two Months Later…

Look I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry I haven’t written a new diary entry in almost two months. The truth is, I was starting to get too emotionally invested. It was seriously taking over the day job – I was unengaged in meetings, kept missing appointments, and I made some pretty bad decisions about the economy (alright, that last one had been happening for a while). The wake-up call came when Samantha accused me of having a more fulfilling relationship with my computer than with her (complete with some rather unnecessary imagery about the device’s USB ports that I strongly deny).

So I toned down my diarising and it turns out I do actually have better things to do than sit at my desk trying to engage a bunch of faceless people who probably won’t vote for me anyway. So yeah, fuck you.

This new found freedom meant I discovered a whole load of things that I was previously unaware of, such as the Great British Bake Off, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and IKEA. Alas this awakening was short-lived when I realised that stopping my diarising somewhat went against my previous claim that I would lead the most transparent government ever. Alright fine, that claim was thoroughly trashed a long time ago. I came back because I missed it. Are you happy? I missed the space to talk uninterruptedly in detail about my life. Does that make me narcissistic? Probably, but I’m the Prime Minster for god sake, I think the question of my narcissism was answered a long time ago.

Anyway, enough of this defensiveness. There has been a lot going on! Here’s a summary:

– It’s Party Time. More accurately, it was party time. Political Party Conference time, that is. I did a speech, Ed Miliband did a speech. Everyone agrees Ed won. Hmmm.

– The US nearly collapsed in on itself. The rest of the world looked on bemused. The Republican Party looked silly (more so than usual).

– George got bashed by the head of the International Monetary Fund for our economic plan. Not physically bashed, she used her words. But they still hurt.

– The Daily Mail offended the entire world (this isn’t particularly newsworthy, granted).

– Key people are still arguing about the HS2 rail project. Everyone else is bored.

That’s sort of it. Two months of politics and it can be summed up as a bunch of stupid people doing stupid things, a bunch of slightly less stupid people doing slightly less stupid things, and a whole load of unnecessary public speaking thrown in to distract everyone. Business as usual then.

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Food For Thought

My time as PM has, some might be surprised to learn, taught me a great deal. It has taught me that America does what the fuck it likes 99.9% of the time, that the general public does not react well to increasing the price of pasties, and that school teachers do not like Michael Gove. At all. However, one of the most surprising lessons I have learnt is that food is very important. When you’re entire job consists of jumping/tumbling/catapulting from one cock up to the next, it’s really important to eat well. Without three solid meals a day, how can George and I be expected to deliver 3% economic growth in three years? When you’re performing at such high levels, getting your brain food is crucial.

The problem I face on a daily basis is deciding what exactly I want to eat. Someone in my position never knows if it’ll be my last meal (funded by the taxpayer) so one has to treat the decision with the respect it deserves. The problem with being as rich as I am (as well as getting most of my food for free) is that the choice is quite literally endless. It’s a real issue for me, and something that other people just don’t have to deal with (unless they shop at Aldi, which allows anyone to eat like a king).

Given the overwhelming choice I face, I have narrowed my go-to meals to a select few, and the one that generally comes out on top is some sort of burger. My love for them really is unrivalled (sorry Samantha). Unfortunately my feelings towards them have been tarnished recently due to the low key PR disaster of Burgergate. This is what happens when you let George Osbourne on Twitter. However, I have recently rediscovered my interest in them with the news that the first artificially made burger has been cooked and eaten at a private gathering in London.

Skipping over the fact that most fast food chains have been dishing up what can only really be described as ‘artificial burgers’ for years, this is pretty exciting stuff, particularly for a burger connoisseur such as myself. My only disappointment, but it’s a fairly substantial one, is that I wasn’t invited. It’s like Boris’s birthday all over again.

To take my mind off this frustration I have turned my attention to bugs. No I’m not talking about listening in to the general public’s private lives – GCHQ are very much on top of that – I’m talking about bugs that I can eat. My secret sources (i.e. the internet) tell me that insects are actually the future of food. They’re full of protein, apparently pretty tasty, and there are lots and lots of them. After the runaway success of my first cook book (Horsing Around with Dave Cameron – read all about it here), I’m feeling the urge to write a second. I’m thinking something along the lines of ‘Grubs Up! with Dave Cameron’ (slogan: Dave’s caught the cooking bug! Have you???)


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A Man With A Van

Reading this blog illegally? Stop it or face arrest. Text BLOG to 78070. We can tell you know. All I need is your email address, and someone at the NSA who has a bit of a thing for me, and I can find out everything there is to know about you.

Ok so restricting the use of the internet by illegal immigrants is a tricky one, particularly as I don’t think there’s such a thing as an illegal immigrant on the internet. I think there are just people and websites, and America listening into the whole thing.

Trying to control people’s physical location is something we can look out, however. Enter: #racistvan. What a great idea! Driving vans with inappropriately offensive messages around areas that have a less than average number of white people – brilliant! They’re sort of like Ice Cream Vans, but instead of trying to attract children we’re trying to attract illegal immigrants. Perhaps if we played a creepy polyphonic version of Greensleeves at the same time we’d attract illegal immigrants with children. That’s the double whammy – you have to leave the country AND there’s not actually any ice cream.

Unfortunately the rest of the country doesn’t seem to have embraced the idea in the same way. Even Nigel has called it ‘nasty’. It all just makes me very confused. Particularly as I accidently stored the number in my phone under ‘Taxi’ last night and got a very awkward phone call from the UK Border Agency this morning.

Personally I don’t see what the fuss is about. It’s not like we’re sending our immigrants to concentration camps on Jersey. Who would do such a thing, really? Talking of Australia, I’m now off to meet Lynton Crosby. Yes, he is an immigrant. No he hasn’t text the number. I have given him the NHS Smoking Helpline though.


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From Russia with…Something

I’m pretty jealous of Edward Snowden. What a jetsetter!  In the last month he’s covered America, Hong Kong , China and Russia and had his sights set on Ecuador and Iceland as well. I thought I did ok on the international travel front but that is impressive stuff. I mean sure he’s been constantly fleeing for his life from the might of the American spy network but hey if you’re going to hide out anywhere, it might as well be somewhere cool. There’s a reason he chose not to escape to Slough, and it has nothing to do with whether Britain would have handed him over to the USA (fyi we would have).                                                                                                                                                     

His gap year style round the world trip has now come to a bit of a standstill but not in the way he wanted, with Russia rejecting his bid for asylum. I like to think he’s currently hanging out in Moscow International Airport like Tom Hanks in The Terminal, charming the other passengers and befriending the cleaners. That would be nice. In reality, he’s probably been sat in some gross holding cell while Russia tried to work out what action they could take that would piss America off just enough to make themselves feel good, whilst not causing an international incident.

The action they’ve gone with is to grant him asylum but only if he stops damaging America’s interests. A clever move, certainly cleverer than anything I could come up with. It says ‘we really like that you leaked all that stuff because we’re no longer the only country in Europe who doesn’t like America, but chill out now yeah?’

Which of course brings us to the other awkward dimension to the whole fiasco. The U.S. is trying to pursue a crucial trade deal with the EU but Europe’s leadership (otherwise known as Germany) are not happy that America has been listening in to its conversations. Phrases like ‘it’s the cold war all over again’ are no doubt being thrown around. From my point of view, all of this is a happy distraction from the fact that our very own communications agency, GCHQ, has also been revealed to have been using America’s vast quantities of information. Oops.

Intriguing as this all may be, it doesn’t really help our man Ed. It’s not just Russia he’s tried. The poor guy has put in requests for asylum to about twenty countries around the world, and they’ve all done the international diplomacy equivalent of walking past a homeless person whilst mumbling something about not having any change.

Perhaps some kind of dating profile would work better:  ‘Man, 30, seeks asylum for relaxed time away from international manhunt.’ Alas, I’m not sure that would go down too well with the one person that no one seems to be talking about, the real victim in all of this – Ed Snowdon’s girlfriend. I bet she’s livid.


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We’re All History (or Fantasy)

Spending reviews are a bit like historical dramas, not because they make up for their terrible inaccuracy with unnecessary sex (though wouldn’t that be interesting), but because they have recently moved from niche occurrences to mainstream regularity. You can thank George Osbourne and HBO for that.

That said, if we’re going down the route of dubious television comparisons (which I absolutely think we should) I believe Game of Thrones might be a more appropriate parallel for the wider political environment, and not just because I think it’s the total shiz. Let’s consider the similarities:

First, everyone wants to double cross everyone else and they often succeed. We only have to look to Australia to find the very same thing happening, with Julia Gillard having just been brutally overthrown by her former deputy, who was himself deposed by Julia a few years ago. I don’t think either of them has been sleeping with their sibling though. That would be weird.

Second, Game of Thrones dedicates a lot of time to the dubious relationship between the previously loyal North, and the increasingly panicked South who they now want to be independent from. This is something I find myself doing regularly as PM. The only difference is that I’m probably not going to declare war on Scotland (though who knows, they might yet declare war on me).

Third, everyone is watching everyone else. Game of Thrones teaches us that if you want to get ahead in life, you must have a network of spies to report on the activity of your enemies AND your friends. The USA is currently teaching us the same thing.

Fourth and finally, with George Osbourne in charge of the economic recovery the phrase ‘Winter is coming’ is pretty accurate in a metaphorical sort of way.

The many parallels got me considering any lessons I can learn from the show but I have concluded its guidance is unfortunately rather limited, at least until I discover a nest of dragon’s eggs and learn how to chill out in a bonfire without getting burnt. It has however become apparent that I should at least avoid boar hunting whilst Boris is around.

Anyway, I could spend this evening coming up with innovative ways of dealing with the county’s problems, or I could hit up season two of Game of Thrones on Netflix. Both options will probably involve lots of unscrupulous political decision making, an unnecessarily expensive banquet (burger anyone?), and, let’s face it, some nudity.


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Sun, Sex and Suspicious Citizens

Anyone who has heard the hit single by the Vengaboys (so everyone then) will be aware that Ibiza is the place to be. Despite the fact that the plane I flew out on wasn’t run by Venga Airways, the holiday did not disappoint. During the day I spent my time relaxing with the family, but the real party started once Samantha turned in for the night, and the lads and I headed on to the ‘strip’. When I say lads I mean a couple of Conservative policy officers and the guy who does the daily media briefings – I’m sure you can understand that they are where the party is at. Yes it was a tad overwhelming at first (poor Graham from the policy office had to have a bit of a sit down) but once I’d got a few buckets inside me and done that dance from the Inbetweeners movie (in a strictly ironic way you understand), I got into the swing of things.

Alas, this blissful (largely alcohol induced) ignorance didn’t last, and soon I returned to the UK to once again take on the rather overwhelming and frequently awkward task of ‘running the country’. But what am I facing now that I have returned? Well Michael Fallon, a Conservative Minister, has stated that being in a coalition ‘can be tedious.’ Thanks for that revelation Michael, I can see it’s your piercing insight that’s got you to where you are.

The never ending scrutiny of coalition-based gossip aside, the key issue of the moment is once again the secrecy of the state. This has materialised itself in two ways. Firstly, information has been leaked showing the US government working with communication and internet companies to look at private data. I approve of the companies’ reactions – outright denial. This method is probably the approach I favour the most when presented with comprehensive and totally undeniable proof regarding something I would rather not admit to. Put your head in the sand and hope it’ll all just go away. Particular credit has to go to Microsoft who are determinedly continuing with their ‘your privacy is our priority’ ads. Textbook stuff.

The other issue is a little closer to home. People are getting moody that I am attending the annual Bilderberg meeting, which is an opportunity to meet the world’s top dogs without fear of being ‘on the record’. Alright yes it is a lot of very powerful people talking about the future of the world in a completely unaccountable sort of way, and yes this is rather counter to my claim that I would lead the ‘most transparent government in the world’, but I’m pretty sure the people complaining are just annoyed that they haven’t been invited.

Anyway, not that this isn’t all very interesting and important and definitely my job, but I have to admit that right now I’m mainly focussed on my intense holiday withdrawal. Where to go next? It seems that I should have become better friends with Lord Laird – I quite fancy a trip to Fiji.


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Swivel On It

Another day, another clash between me and, well, everyone else. This time the ‘everyone else’ are the grassroots campaigners of the Conservative Party. They’ve been getting restless lately, like some sort of mythical monster that hasn’t been fed enough local orphans. The difficulty I face (apart from a lack of orphans), is that they’re favourite dish is a combination of anti-European and anti-gay delicacies. Now this is obviously an area where I and others in the Conservative leadership disagree with them, resulting in some pretty hefty unrest and some highly original name calling. ‘Swivel eyed loons’ is not a term that one tends to hear in everyday conversation but it has become front page news since Lord Feldman chose to brand our own party activists in such a creative way. I’d be angry with him if I wasn’t so impressed with his choice of words.

Clearly then, there is a disconnect between us up here and them down there. There are two possible reasons for this. It could be that they just can’t comprehend the complexities of actually governing the county, with all the different influences you have to consider, and so they are sticking frustratingly to their principles. Sort of like the Lib Dems did until two years ago when they realised they were going to have to compromise (read: crumble) on every policy they’d ever had.

Or it could simply be that Conservative activists are totally mental. Realistically, this is probably the actual reason. Every party has those crazies that they try to hide away. Labour pretends it doesn’t have any mental lefty members crying out for the re-nationalisation of everything. Of course it does. Likewise us Conservatives like to pretend we don’t have any crazy, homophobic, isolationist, xenophobic, old white folk still floating about when in reality that’s actually about 50% of the people who vote for us.

As with most things in life, I was reflecting on how all of this has affected me. There’s no denying that it’s making me look weak. Having to call on Ed Miliband to save the Gay Marriage bill is sort of like asking for help from a wet flannel. Embarrassing. More concerning however is the ever growing presence of UKIP, hanging around like a racist smell only one percentage point below us. Our most swivel eyed supporters may yet choose to take their support further to the right. When the people you rely on to get you elected are pissed off with you, it’s sort of a bad sign for the future

It seems to me that the solution to this issue is not actually to solve it at all, but rather to push focus onto someone else’s incompetence instead. Standard. This also has the added bonus of allowing me to try out my own creative insults. Alright, yes that is my main motivation. What can I say? I’m feeling inspired. Inspired to be a bastard.


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Dear Diary

I’ve done something morally dubious. I know, that’s not like me at all. Last week George and I were playing desk basketball in his office and he popped out quickly to tell someone to make another £10m cuts to something or other. I got curious and ended up having a bit of a root around. All of a sudden I came across a worn leather book. OMG – it was his diary, just sitting there for anyone to find (underneath a pile of papers at the back of his locked desk drawer). I’d like to say I hesitated for a moment to consider the ethical implications of my actions but that would be ridiculous – I dived straight in.

The first thing I noticed was the note written on the inside cover. It read ‘To George, you crazy bastard. Go make it happen – your best bud, Lucifer’. Can you believe it? I thought I was his best bud! I brushed off the stab to the feelings and turned to the first entry:

‘OMG. Megalolz. I’m the Chancellor’. Hmmm. Not exactly eloquent. Should I be worried? Is it too much to expect some emotion? I wept like a child when I became Prime Minister. Granted I’d also just been watching the Notebook but it still counts.

The next entry went like this: ‘Presented at a Paralympics medal ceremony today. It was sort of cool but the booing was odd. Why would the entire crowd boo someone who’s just won a Paralympic medal?’ Oh George. Doesn’t he realise that I fired someone for that PR balls up? A person literally lost their job and he doesn’t understand that the crowd’s hostility was aimed at him. Bless him.

The next one was to the point: ‘Autumn Statement done. JAGERBOMBS!!!’ I’m pretty supportive of the central thesis of this entry.

Alas George soon returned, so I will have to make do with having read only three entries (four including the note from his rather worryingly named friend). What to make of it? Well I’m clearly not the only one who keeps a self indulgent diary, though I’d like to think mines a little more articulate. I suppose there’s a reason I’m PM and he’s only Chancellor. That said, I respect his secret love of Jagermeister, though I wish he’d been more open about it – I’ve been looking for a new drinking buddy ever since Hague decided he preferred Smirnoff Ice.


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Have you ever heard of Na h-Eileanan Siar? No it’s not that place in The Lord of the Rings where Aragorn does that thing with his sword and every woman in the cinema swoons. What’s that? Yes I suppose that is every place they go to. Well, apparently Na h-Eileanan Siar is a real place, and in the UK no less. It’s an island community in the very north of Scotland and according to a new study it is the happiest place to live.

This confuses me for several reasons. Firstly, it’s in Scotland. What’s that about? How can the happiest place in the country be an area where there is no Conservative presence? What’s worse is that the places that ranked second to fifth are also all in Scotland. I’m noticing a pattern, and it does not make me look very good.

The second reason I’m confused is because I read something a couple of months ago that said Harrogate was the happiest place to live. That was much more to my liking. An upper-middle class area being happy is something I can relate to. Being upper-middle class is awesome. Oh sorry, George says we have to call them ‘strivers’ now. Something about ‘turning the country against poor people.’

Anyway, being the sensitive soul that I am, this has got me reflecting about my own happiness. Am I happy? How does one measure such a thing? Apart from comparing oneself against Nick Clegg (clearly winning there, though I suppose it helps to not have your spirit broken on a daily basis).

I have decided that, in general, I am happy. I have a lovely wife and child, a totally awesome job, I’m ridiculously handsome and I get to watch Game of Thrones whenever I want. I think the only thing that would improve the quality of my life right now is some sort of tasty treat. I’m off to Co-op.



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