1997

Poor Cherie. She still hasn't got over being snapped on the doorstep in her dressing gown by the world's press the morning after the election. If she ever finds out that Alastair and I staged the whole thing, she'll kill us.

Other than that, things can only get better. Well, yeah, come on. I think we all know things are pretty peachy already. Ten years from now (or six, if you ask Gordon) I can see myself leaving Downing Street having shrunk the gap between rich and poor into oblivion, achieved World Peace, and overseen the adoption of the Euro. No question.

"Tony?" says Cherie, from time to time. "When do you think the press will stop mocking my frumpy hair and clothes?"

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Speaking on French TV, Tony Blair sang the praises of the EU and sketched his agenda for its future, all in fluent French

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"Pretty soon," I tell her.

1998

"Don't worry," says Alastair. "That isn't a soundbite at all."

"Really?" I say, hopefully. "Because now isn't a time for soundbites."

"I know," says Alastair.

"I just want to say that I feel the hand of history on my shoulder," I say.

"So say it," says Alastair, fiddling with his pager. "Perfectly normal way of speaking. Chill."

Bit worried about one of my front teeth. Seems to be shrinking back into my mouth.

1999

"Hello," says Peter Mandelson, Secretary of State for Trade and Industry.

"Hello," I say.

"Goodbye," says Peter Mandelson, owner of a suspiciously large home in Notting Hill.

"Goodbye," I say.

"Hello," says Peter Mandelson, Secretary of State For Northern Ireland.

Tricky year.

2000

William Hague is doing quite well against me in the Commons, but nobody cares, because he is bald and odd-looking. So, I don't think we've got much to worry about. We are the government that brought Britain the Millennium Dome, after all. People won't forget a triumph like that in a hurry, yeah?

Can't believe I'm coming up for my first election. Really am going to need to have a chat with Gordon one of these days. Maybe next year. Tooth still a worry.

"Tony?" says Cherie, still quite frequently. "When do you think the press will stop mocking my frumpy hair and clothes?"

"Pretty soon," I tell her.

2001

"Goodbye," says Peter Mandelson, outgoing Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, and close and useful friend of Indian businessmen without passports.

Bit of a blow. Still, I've got a new friend. He's George, the new American president. Smart guy. After terrorists smashed planes into the World Trade Centre, he asked me for my support. I was about to tell him I felt the hand of history on my shoulder, but Alastair told me I'd used that one before.

Election went well. The Conservatives have ditched their bald, odd-looking leader, and replaced him with another bald, odd-looking leader. Don't think I'll bother learning his name.

2002

Gordon growing seriously sulky. Never mind. The great thing about being Prime Minister is that you get to meet all sorts of interesting people, and make all sorts of new friends. I've been seeing a lot more of my old friend Michael Levy. In fact, I've made him my special envoy to the Middle East. What a guy.

Cherie, meanwhile, has made a beautiful friend called Carole Caplin. She's very stylish and (when not draping us with seaweed!) very charming, too. She thinks I should see a dentist. She also has a solid, reliable totally trustworthy boyfriend called Peter Foster. Apparently, he is helping her out with some flats in Bristol. It's really good of him. We're both so pushed for time, so without his help we might get something wrong, and end up doing something embarrassing.

2003

George and I decided to attack Iraq, mainly because, if you sort of screw up your eyes and don't really think about it, they weren't entirely unconnected, if only conceptually speaking, from 9/11. Arguably.

It's amazing how wrong so many people can be about this. Seriously! As if George and I didn't know best. Y'know? I mean, as if we hadn't even thought about it! Still, the war started at the end of March, and it was totally finished by May, so they all look pretty stupid now.

Bit of a spat with the BBC. No biggie.

2004

"Hello," says David Blunkett, fiercely authoritarian Home Secretary.

"Hello," I say.

"Goodbye," says David Blunkett, cuckolding friend of promiscuous Americans and particularly useful chap for them to know when their nannies' visa applications are sticking in the system.

"Goodbye," I say.

Tooth still retreating. Gordon makes his garden wall a little higher.

2005

Another election. And so soon. It seems the Conservatives ditched their odd, bald little man a few years ago, and replaced him with another odd bald man, but one with pedigree. Still, he lost, too.

Terrorists have struck the London underground. I can't understand it. I always thought that, if we gave radical Islamists a free hand to fundraise, train and preach jihad, then we would always be safe. Seems pretty foolish now, I suppose.

Brief chat with David Blunkett, the outgoing Secretary of State for Work and Pensions and regrettably forgetful director of DNA Bioscience. He doesn't work for me anymore.

2006

The Conservatives have chosen this bright young kid as a leader. He has hair (for now), wears the right clothes, listens to the right music and says things that sound nice enough, but don't actually mean anything at all. This is preposterous. It is an insult to politics. Where did they get the idea?

Sometimes, at night, I think I can hear the sound of Gordon sharpening knives.

2007

Well. Time to go, I think. Sometimes, I look around the Cabinet table and wonder where the years went. And, indeed, where all the people who weren't Scottish went. Were there always this many?

Strange to think that a three month war is still going on, four years later. Strange to think that business with Alan Milburn didn't work out. Strange to think I still have that tooth.

"Tony?" says Cherie, as we start to pack. "When do you think the press will stop mocking my frumpy hair and clothes?"

"Pretty soon," I say.

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