Monday

“Darling,” says my friend Jennifer Saunders, who has come around for lunch and has lapsed into character, “how is it going with the burkhas?” “Gurkhas,” I tell her, and I wave my little curved sword in a threatening manner. “Gurkhas.” Jennifer pulls a face. “Diet darling,” she says. “No pickles.” Then she picks up a napkin and drapes it around her head. “Hmm, darling?” she says. “Burkhas? Sweetie? Darling? Darling?” This is the effect I have on people. It’s bloody annoying. I’ll hear somebody cussing away like a trucker, and go and say hello, and then the minute they open their mouths it’ll be all “sweetie, darling” and genuine surprise that I’m not smoking and don’t have a beehive.

It even happens with the Gurkhas. I’ll tell some grizzled old veteran that he’s the bravest man I’ve ever met. He’ll look at me, eyes full of infinite, Eastern wisdom, and then tell me that he’s very sorry, but he hasn’t got any cocaine or Silk Cut.

Tuesday

“I’m very sorry, darling,” says the terribly good-looking young man politician, sweating slightly, “but I haven’t got any cocaine. Although I could maybe find you a Silk Cut.” That’s okay, I tell him, tersely.

The Government will let Gurkhas stay if they fulfil certain conditions, and they apply to only about 100. It won’t do. The politician says Gordon Brown has been in touch with an informal offer to extend this to Gurkhas with a J in their name, or who have green eyes, or can spell “Mississippi” backwards in under three seconds. “And how many more is that?” I ask. About seven, reckons the politician. “Garaaaah!,” I shout, and I heft my kukri.

“Gosh,” says the politician, going puce. “Woof. I had a poster of you in my bedroom. In your catsuit.” Tedious.

Wednesday

A secret early morning call from the Prime Minister, of all people, begging me to halt my campaign. He says he hasn’t watched television since 1970, but he thinks he used to have a poster of me once, in his bedroom. In order to head off a rebellion, he says, he’s prepared to extend his residency conditions. Gurkhas who can speak Latin, maybe, plus Gurkhas who can dance an Eightsome Reel. That’s another four Gurkhas. At least.

“We can’t do better,” he sighs. “Alistair says we can’t afford it.” “Alistair who?” I demand. “Darling,” says the PM. “Alistair who?” I repeat. “Darling!” he says again.

“Don’t ‘darling’ me,” I snap. “I asked you a question.” The PM says he’s finding this conversation really confusing.

Thursday

Well, that went well. Although I can’t abide the House of Commons. Lots of sweaty glances from lots of red-faced men. Early on, the good-looking, young man politician sidled up. “Great to have you on board,” he said. “Between us, we’d love to have you in the party. Don’t worry about the cocaine and Silk Cut. Not a problem these days.” I stabbed him in the thigh, fairly gently, and he went away. Then, after about five minutes, he came back. “Great to have you on board,” he said, shaking me by the hand. “We’d love to have you in the party.” “Haven’t we done this?” I said. He looked hurt and said that he was David Cameron. He thought I might be confusing him with Nick Clegg.

“There are two of you?” I said.

At least, said the young man, and I had to ask which one had the poster in their bedroom of me in the catsuit. Probably all of us, said the young man, in a manner that made me stab him, too. Like I said, really creepy.

Friday

“Sweetie!” says Jennifer Saunders, who has come around for lunch again. “A triumph. Well done you! The burkhas are safe!” “Gurkhas,” I say.

“Mmm,” says Jennifer, and adds that there are two almost identical politicians outside, sweating, and looking as though they are trying to pluck up the courage to ring the doorbell. I sigh and hand her my kukri. “Be a dear,” I say, “and pop out and stab them with this.” “Darling!” says Jennifer.

“Sure,” I shrug. “Him too. If he’s there.”

*According to Hugo Rifkind

Times Recommends

• Can I be complimentary, my dear Watson?
• Hardliners realise Britain is a soft touch
• The jaw-dropping truth about Gordon