Monday

Look, clear off or I’ll set the dogs on you. What? Oh, fine. I’ve got nothing to hide. Look chum, I don’t even know where Equatorial Guinea is. Does that make me sound a berk? What do I care? You might think they would have put a clue in the name. Ridiculous. It’s nowhere near Italy at all.

Farther away the better, if you ask me. I’m here in Spain most of the time. I like a bit of sun. Spain is nice. We don’t control Spain, of course, but there could be moves afoot to do something about that. Actually, forget I said that. You can’t prove it. What do you think I’m talking about? A coup? Nothing to do with me. Air ambulances, old boy. That’s my area. Look, we’ve got dogs here. Big ones. I have nothing to add to what has already been disclosed. Goodbye.

Tuesday

Oh. You’re back. You may as well come in. G&T? Nice to have somebody to talk to. Mother’s nuts, sister’s awful, the family is off in America. They won’t let me in there. Had a place in Monaco. They won’t let me in there, either. Bloody ridiculous. Somebody ought to do something about Monaco. Actually, how are you for liquid assets? Between you and me, Smelly, Pongo and some of the chaps from Harrow were thinking . . . hold on. Telephone. It’s the red one. Must be the old lady.

Good morning, Prime Minister. Yes. Sir Mark Thatcher here. I’m fine. Spain. Yes. Awful. Poor Simon Mann. Yes, somebody should do something, but who? Ronald Reagan? No, mother. He’s dead. No, not acting.

Look Prime Minister, I don’t suppose you know where Equatorial Guinea actually is, do you? No, I am not lost again! I do have a proper car! Mother . . . Prime Minister . . . You still here? This could take a while. Go on, bog off.

Wednesday

Cigar? Go on, old boy. Treat yourself. No shortage. The PM knows a man in South America. Well, she did. General Whatsit. He’s dead, too. Fifty quid? Good man.

Of course, I can see what it’s all about. I can imagine them in all those bars in the Congo; hard-bitten serious chaps with AK47s, like Smiffy, Pingu and Itchy. All the old cricket team. “I’ll tell you who gets a job done,” they’ll have been saying to each other. “Thatcher. Solid as a rock. They should have had him at Isandlwana. Rorke’s Drift! No empire any more? Not enough Thatchers, that’s the thing!”

This must happen at all sorts of levels. Boardrooms. Microsoft. The United Nations. Before Iraq, probably. “Of course,” Blair will have said to Bush: “There’s one man who can sort it out. Bloody Boy Thatcher, that’s who.” I’ll be top of their lists for Burma and Zim, you mark my words. Stands to reason.

Thursday

I’ll tell you what’s an underexploited resource. The Moon, that’s what. Somebody should get a few of the old Harrovians together, Plippy, Ploppy, Bingo, Bonzo, Djingo, Django and the rest. Bloody good men every one. See what they can do. Not that it would have anything to do with me.

Friday

Carol? Not spoken to her in years. Think she and the Prime Minister are still on terms. Rather her than me. What? Either of them. Off in the jungle, wasn’t she? Ha! Funny how Carol gets to strut around the jungle like some African queen, and Simon gets half a life in Bongo Bongo chokey. Ha! Go on, write that down.

Look, before you go. You get expenses, don’t you? Need to do a favour for some friends of mine. Old Harrovians. Good sorts. Fancy going halves on an air ambulance for the Moon? What could possibly go wrong? You in?

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