So! I am in my dressing room, trying on a new snakeskin three-piece victory suit, when my election agent knocks on the door.

“Come!” I shout, merrily. “Your mother was a foul lactating haemorrhoid! Come on in!” My election agent appears, cautiously.

“My mother was . . . what?” “Ha!” I say, and slap him on the back. “A joke between friends! The grotesque old sow, eh? Ha! What news?”

“Not so great, Don Berlusconi,” he says. “Romano Prodi’s centre-left grouping looks a little ahead. Our best hope is to fashion some sort of collaborative coalition, much as Merkel has managed to in . . .”

“Backside!” I wisecrack. “You dismal cretin! I’m not talking about the election. What do I care for formalities? I’m talking about my legacy. Silvio: The Movie. What news from Tom Cruise?”

“He doesn’t seem keen. But Don Berlusconi, the election . . .”

“Election, election, election. As the disappointed whores used to say to your father, eh? Ha!” My election agent leaves.

MARTEDÌ

I am at my villa in Sardinia, floating on a Lilo in the middle of my Italy-shaped pool. Also, I am on the telephone.

“You old son of a bitch on heat!” I say, pleasantly. “Ha! Romano! I hope you don’t mind that I give you this call?”

Romano is non-committal.

“My aides,” I continue, “they say to me, don’t call Romano Prodi. You cannot make a deal with this man. He is not like you. Hell, he probably doesn’t even like women. You know?”

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