It may be rubbish but it’s British rubbish.

August 9

10pm

Prince Charles just phoned to ask if I’d help him stage a ‘bloodless coup’.

The secret diaries of Boris Johnson

Bit of a shock, to say the least. He sounded very excited. Turns out Camilla had been away most of the day having her facial hair removed by her favourite quack in Paris and so Charles had been at a bit of loose end. He got so bored he actually asked one of his servants to switch on the television thingy so he could watch the BBC news, catch up on world events and so look like a king in waiting.

Then he saw the story about Emperor Akihito of Japan suggesting that he wanted to abdicate and allow his son Crown Prince Naruhito to take over. Well, that obviously set his mind racing… poor chap is his late sixties now and has been waiting forever for Her Maj to snuff it so he can claim his place in history.

Well, she’s clinging on better than Bruce Forsyth and so Charles is understandably frustrated. To be so near to glory and yet so far… well, I know that feeling. “You’ve got to help me Boris,” he said.

“Well, of course, old chap. I’ll do all I can,” I said, trying to sound supportive while feeling slightly concerned that I might be entering treasonous ground, or even worse, that some bitter Remain prankster was setting me up for a sting and my name would be all over the papers the next day as a traitor to the nation… as if I would sacrifice the nation for my own cheap ambition.

Charles obviously sensed my concern so he said our secret phrase to prove it was really him: “Girrls may shine like a distant star, but Bullingdon pigs are prettier by far.” Well that reassured me so I let him continue.

“The Emperor wants to step down because he’s 82 now… well mummy’s past bloody 90 so isn’t it about time she called it a day? It’s not even as if she enjoys it… every time she does a public engagement she comes back moaning that her bunions are killing her from all that standing around, or she’s stressed out worrying that daddy will make some racist comments about fuzzy wuzzies and such like… she keeps saying she wants William and Harry to take some of the pressure of her… but never mentions me… it’s like I don’t exist.

“The thing is Boris… I’ve been watching the television… wonderful invention… and I saw a programme about how you led a ‘bloodless coup’ to get rid of Cameron and the rest and take us out of the EU thingy… I saw that and I thought, he’s my man to make my dreams come true… what do you say?”

Well what could I say… I mumbled a bit to stall for time but thankfully rescue was at hand from an unlikely source… there were sounds of a struggle on the other end of the line, a lot of shouting and cursing and then I hear Prince William’s voice, effing and blinding and sounding very concerned

“Listen Johnson, you cretin,” he said, “my father has been under a lot of strain lately because one of his prized architectural churches had been knocked down to make way for glass cinema complex… cut him deep… but not as deep as I will cut you if you whisper a word of this to anyone.

“If this gets out, Harry and I will take you up our helicopter and drop you from a great height you fat, pompous, lying oaf…” the phone went dead.

Well, the ‘fat’ hurt… bit unnecessary… and to think I always thought they were such nice boys.

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