Newsround. September 2015.

Dear Rowley,

Chancellor George Osborne is tarting it around in Shanghai today promoting British business interests to the yellow peril. I, for one, don’t wish to get into bed with the Chinese either singularly or collectively. As Kitty would say, ‘can you really respect a nation that’s never taken to cutlery?’ And as for China’s human rights record, I think we’re dancing with the devil.

Please god we don’t attract any more Chinese tourists to London next summer compared to this. No sense of spacial awareness, the Chinese. I had to beat them off with my wangee when trying to negotiate the British Museum gift shop. One particularly aggressive Chinese woman almost ripped a Rosetta Stone iPhone case out my hand without even a by your leave. I tapped her on the cleavage with my debit card and told her to back off.

Now I know racial stereotypes are discouraged in this day and age but I’ll tell you the Chinese aren’t any more fond of us than we of they. They haven’t forgiven us for the Boxer Rebellion yet. I’ve only been to Shanghai once and returned with one of the most hideous stomach bugs known to man. I still haven’t forgiven them.

How are we feeling about Lord Ashcroft’s fresh revelations in the Daily Mail who are extracting the muckiest episodes in his book Call Me Dave? I am entirely on Prime Minister Cameron’s side regarding this morally bankrupt, spiteful little tome. I surely can’t be the only one who is much less offended by Mr Cameron’s alleged porcine university roast than the thought of Jeremy Corbyn and Diane Abbott dogging in a lay-by outside a shopping centre in Leeds.

But I do feel for David Cameron. All’s to say about the treachery of Lord Ashcroft is that one hopes some time soon a photograph might emerge of he snorting coke from a rent boy’s buttock while dragged-up as Eva Braun and squealing from the lash of a Lady Boy of Bangkok’s bullwhip. It is no less than he deserves.

Of course the true revelation in Call Me Dave was what a hard-working, multi-tasker David Cameron happens to be. I always suspected he was an Olympic standard chillaxer and inveterate posh slacker. The fact that he gets through two hours-worth of red boxes before 8am is hugely impressive.

I suppose the real scandal exposed in the book is the incestuous nature of the Chipping Norton set whose conditions of entry seem to be wealth, class, influence and an entirely hedonistic, selfish ‘snout-in-trough’ approach to life. It is desperately uncomfortable to think that the media-ocracy is running the shop. Ironic that the politicos who were so keen to oust aristocrats from the House of Lords have replaced hereditary peers with people who have a monstrous sense of entitlement.

As you know darling, I’m no socialist. Life is not fair and we are not all equal. There may be an element of green-eyes in the way I view the ruling class today. I am not one of them, don’t socialise with them and have never benefitted from nepotism in my entire life. Perhaps I should have tried harder to cosy-up to people who would be of use.

But, then again, I think people who make their own way without asking for help outside true friends and family are admirable. I can only wonder what nightmares trouble the consciences of Chipping Norton oligarchs such Jeremy Clarkson, Matthew Freud or Rebekah Brooks? Perhaps they sleep easily. I don’t think psychopaths are troubled with conscience.

Lord Ashcroft was foolish to sanction the second-hand tale about the undergraduate David Cameron performing a sex act on a pig’s head at a Piers Gaveston Society debauch. It certainly doesn’t ring true to me though I think most people in London have slept with a few oinkers before finding their prince. But so vivid is the picture that it eclipses all of the other much more serious politically damaging accusations in the book.

Tell-all books and exposes tend to flare like a match head and just as swiftly burn out. I think about Andrew Morton’s ‘biography’ of the late Diana, Princess of Wales. The press fell over themselves to print extracts and, as a consequence, fewer people bothered to buy the book. I am a royalist and haven’t read a syllable of the Diana book. Neither am I a fan of Kitty Kelly’s muck-raking Hollywood lives.

I’d rather read one of the late, great Jackie Collins’s novels such as Hollywood Wives or The World is Full of Married Men than I would a Kitty Kelly hatchet job about a dead celebrity such as Elizabeth Taylor or Frank Sinatra who were both worth ten of KK. So sorry to hear of Jackie’s death because she seemed to be such a life-enhancer.

One understands entirely why Jackie Collins kept her breast cancer and the various treatments from her nearest and dearest: even, by all accounts, sister Joan. I was diagnosed with Hodgkins Disease (lymph node cancer) in my mid-twenties and the only way I knew how to handle it was to alert family but then ask them to respectfully back-off while I handled it.

If you’re given a 90% success rate for chemotherapy and radiotherapy you can afford to be brave and noble. That I do understand in retrospect. But on no level did cancer treatment fail to leave physical and mental scars. Anyway, we were talking politics today not exchanging health notes like Jewish housewives so let’s end on my favourite joke this week: ‘David Cameron’s Pig Society’.