MONDAY

WHEN Sleepy Hancock gets one of his bright ideas it’s always best not to be last out the door in the retreat, else you find yourself commandeered. Drunk on the euphoria of the vaccine rollout and eager to get the Mancunians sorted with the Astra Zeneca Hancock decided that what was needed was a targeted ad campaign featuring Facebook and the Manchester Evening News.

He also wanted a big red battlebus touring the north-west bearing the slogan “Astra La Vista, babies”. Dorothy at Health claims she tried to warn him against the slogan. “It’s a play on words that the big Hollywood muscly chap, Rocky Schwarzenegger says when he knocks out the Russian boxer,” he says defensively.

“I think you mean Arnold,” she says.

“Yes, him … Rocky Arnold. It has just the right combination of grit and defiance. Astra La Vista, baby. It sends out just the right message. These northerners are a hardy bunch. They’ll love it.”

“Mr Secretary; Hasta La Vista means ‘goodbye’. Some might think it insensitive.”

“Yes but we’d be saying goodbye to the Covid.”

TUESDAY

IT’S worse than you can imagine. Hancock pitched up at a care home in Salford flashing Churchill V-signs and yelling “Astra La Vista babies” at half-dead codgers. One of the poor old souls was getting the last rights performed over her by a priest as her daughter stood at a distance, weeping silently. It was a lamentably sad exit, but dignified … until Hancock breenged in shouting “Astra la vista, baby” like a crazed Harold Shipman.

One of the outraged nurses took footage on her smartphone and it was on the six-o’clock news the same night. Hancock, his eyes bulging like Sniffer Gove’s the morning after one of his Spectator bacchanals is yelling in the old lady’s ear just as she succumbed. “The Terminated,” roared The Sun; “Grim Reaper,” blasted the Mail; “Hasta La Vista, Hancock (and don’t come back) urged The Times.

WEDNESDAY

HANCOCK has survived. Just. Saved by the galloping news cycle and shenanigans at the G7 Summit. Le Monde, furious with the PM over his obduracy on the Irish sausages has released more late-night messages with the unmistakeable stamp of you-know-who sent to Brigitte Macron. Most are the squelchy fantasies of a sexually frustrated Eton sixth-former. But this one is causing a lot of bother.

“Ma cherie; j’espere that tu avez porting le petit robe de flannel que je saw you porting sur Guillame Gates grand catamaran dermiere mois. Vous avez a petit derriere comme Jean Pierre Papin et – combien can je put cette – vous seemed right up pour le tasse! Peut-etre we can avez un petit temps to nous-memes during le summit de G-Sept en Juin. A propos: Carrie et Pere Stanislaus sont getting tres proche pour mon liking.”

Whatever could it all mean?

THURSDAY

ONE of the more esoteric tasks that fall to me as junior adviser in social affairs is to source three tethered goats for the Spectator summer Garden Party. No one’s ever explained for what purpose the beasts’ presence is required. I’m not a very religious person but I’m always compelled to drop into St Paul’s for a silent prayer of spiritual protection.

It’s often whispered that these occasions are when the party whips earn their corn. Armed with smartphones they prowl the rose bushes chivvying out furtive doings. They use the gathered material to maintain party discipline.

A curious thing happened today though, just as I was taking delivery of three rather large black goats. As if by magic, Fr Stanislaus suddenly appeared, looking troubled and saying that he’d received one of the prized invitations to attend. “What-ho, Fr Stan,” I greet him with forced jocundity, “it’s jolly decent of them to invite you and a bit of a feather in the old kalimavkion.”

“Ah, Rupert, Rupert; ah ver much have ze fear zat zey haff zumzing zat isn’t exactly your jolly hockey clubs for your faavorit defrocked orthodox priest.” He put his arm round my shoulder and wept a big salty tear onto my Lato & Gadocha sports jacket. Whatever could he mean?

FRIDAY

EVERYONE’S trying hard to hide their delight about that judge’s ruling on Cummings’ and Gove’s friends and family PPE grift. And, with all eyes averted we seem to have got away with a far bigger one. To facilitate a joint nuclear weapons project with the Israelis we’ve only gone and given them 50 million doses of the Astra Zeneca. Which they intend to use as a bribe for desperate Palestinians to spy on Hamas and turn in their friends and neighbours. If this gets out we’re all somewhat Friar Tucked.