Monday

Sometimes I watch people from my window in City Hall. Down below, like ants. They’re out to get me. Ungrateful scum. Don’t they understand that I am London? I breathe Crouch End, I sneeze Hackney. Prick me and I bleed Willesden. These people are my people. All of them. Even some of the Jews. If you are against me, you are against London. London is me. Nobody else in this city has any vision.

You want to know a secret? The other year, we got Nelson cleaned on top of his column. We took off his face. We put my face on instead. If people knew that they’d say I was mad. It’s pathetic.

Tuesday

I’m in the office, polishing my jackboots and knocking back a bottle of Scotch to combat a troublesome head cold, when a Kentrooper knocks on the door. “Master,” he says. “We have a visitor. A young lady from the Labour Party.” It’s a good career being a Kentrooper. You don’t get a uniform – not yet – but you answer only to me. All Kentroopers earn over £60,000 a year, plus perks. Usually you become a Kentrooper by being a relative of an existing Kentrooper, or a close business associate of a close business associate of one of theirs. Some people find this unsavoury. They are racists.

“What do you want?” I say to the girl from the Labour Party. She is awkward. It seems that the party is alarmed by some of the things being said about me. Mainly, that I am using taxpayer-funded staff to advance my own personal projects. That sort of thing.

“Darling,” I tell her. “I have no personal projects. I am London. I know what London needs. And right now I think that London could do with a big red button on its desk, and a shark tank.” She leaves.

Wednesday

London needs a jacket with epaulettes and no collar. London needs a fly-whisk. London could do with a really impressive hat. Yeah. London likes the sound of that.

Tonight I’m at my desk until 3am, updating my Enemies of London list. Enemies of London are in their own especially high council-tax band. Their Oyster cards deplete faster. Nobody collects their bins or recycling.

Right now, Enemies of London include my rival mayoral candidates, Trevor Phillips, anybody who works for the Evening Standard, Channel 4 or the New Statesman, Jews, Americans, somebody who once pushed past me in the queue for a cash machine and people who don’t like bendy buses. I think I’m going to add that girl from the Labour Party. We don’t need her sort around here.

Thursday

London’s front garden needs tidying up. I spent a couple of hours hiding in a bush in Boris Johnson’s front garden in the middle of last night and his was immaculate. It won’t do. I summon a Kentrooper.

“Can you sort out my front garden?” I say. “Or is that a personal project?” The Kentrooper frowns. “I think it might be a personal project,” he says. “I’d have to do it in my own time.”

“Fine – have the afternoon off.” “Gosh!” says the Kentrooper. “Thank you, master!”

“Now get down to Cricklewood,” I say, “and sort out my front garden.”

“Oh,” says the Kentrooper.

Friday

Another head cold, another whisky. Another morning in my office at City Hall. What will I do if Boris Johnson gets in? I can imagine him turning up, in his dinner jacket.

“Ah, Mr Johnson,” I would say. “I have been expecting you. We are very much alike, you and I.”

No. It won’t do. Forget City Hall. London deserves better. London deserves a City Hall in the middle of the Thames, or a City Hall in space. London deserves a base that will self-destruct in ten minutes. London deserves a private army. London deserves the bomb. London deserves a weirdly scarred face and no hair. London deserves a fluffy white cat . . .

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