As imagined by Brian Beacom

WHAT have I done to Dominic Cummings to make him hate me so much? Since Boris brought him in I made sure his eye-wash bottle was sterilised, I skipped down to Pret every morning for his humus and wild bean sandwich and often iron-pressed the pages on his crumpled copy of Anna Karenina.

Now he treats me like Ronaldo treats Coca Cola. He thinks I’m personally responsible for global warming, the rubbish trade deal with Australia and the last episode of Line of Duty.

But you have to remember that Dom has a lot of suppressed anger issues to work through, over experiences he had between the ages of 19 months and 49 years old.

Does that mean it’s okay for him to claim that Boris said I was hopeless? Well, the Prime Minister didn’t actually say those words, although he may have texted it, which of course he didn’t because what the What’s App revealed was that I was ‘totally f****** hopeless’.

Am I hopeless? Well, I don’t think so. But if you’re pressing me, and your voice suggests you are, then I’m not absolutely sure. Yet, consider this; if I were that hopeless would my sister have been able to land her bib deal with the Welsh government, a company in which I’m a 20 per cent shareholder?

Look, I admit I may get a bit flustered at times. When I said we were on track to deliver 100,000 vaccines a month what I really meant was I haven’t a scoobie how many we can get out there, which the public should have realised.

And remember, it was a time of great pressure on the Government to give the impression we knew exactly what we were doing – when of course we were as blind as Dom that day he got lost in Durham.

Okay, yes, I told the public last year they’d go on the naughty step and wouldn’t be allowed to exercise in the park. I called Marcus Rashford ‘Daniel’. But who hasn’t confused a black international footballer with a little white-faced screen wizard at some time in their life?

What you have to realise is that I am very good at what I do. I may zombie walk at times but it’s unfair to say I hold onto my job because I’m an Olympic-class a*** kisser. And each morning I don’t kiss the photo of the Prime Minister’s backside on my iPhone. That’s far from the truth. Sometimes I alternate it with my pic of Jacob Rees-Mogg’s rather pert little posterior.

Anyway, Boris can’t sack me from the Cabinet for being a diddy because that would set a very dangerous precedent.

And he needs me. I’m Baldrick to his Blackadder. I’m Barney to his Fred Flintstone. Hang on, those sidekicks are simpletons. I’m Boris’s equal. His friend. And he’s promised me a packet of Haribos if I don’t mention he was wrong to declare me a deluded clown.

Meantime, I can’t talk anymore. I’m too busy saving lives.