10th December 2019

Dear Laura, 

Well, that was a bit, er..um. Yes well. “In delirium tremens est rectum” as my old housemaster used to say in the School’s wine cellar after being caught with his trousers down with a glossy magazine in one hand and his pulsing organ in the other. A good sort nonetheless. 

I never do like being caught by journalists with awkward questions and a few pictures. I should know, I made up a few stories in my time and helped arrange for a duffing up of a rather too inquisitive chap. But, I should care, really, about a child on the floor at some pleb’s hospital dedicated to the healing of the indigent, the rancid and the moral equivalent of the underclass’s skid marked undies? One moment of distraction and everyone goes all ‘sermon on the mount’ on my arse. Look, we had to cut the deficit, to stop uppity unions and the grubby working class from getting organised. You and I both know that private health insurance is the way to go, and if the odd patient should spend a few nights sleeping in a skip, instead of being in the tender care of a bit of totty nurse, that should be lesson that the NHS is indeed better off in private hands. 

That video clip made it look like I did not care. Spot on. I was thinking about you in a nurse’s uniform of starched white apron, black stockings, bending over with a cheeky grin and short skirt, pouting “Go on Boris, Get Laura Done. Unleash the potential of Johnson’s Johnson” . Thats why I did not look at the bloody picture. 

Yours in anticipation and with thanks, 

Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson. 

PS Dom thinks you are a hot, and on Friday would like to meet up for a ‘drink’ (if you get my drift).