My Theresa. September 2016.

Dear Rowley,

Have you noticed something remarkable about Theresa May since she became Prime Minister? She does not release pre-emptive press releases about what she will do as did New Labour and Mr Cameron ad nauseum. Instead, Mrs May quietly and confidently gets on with preparing Britain for Brexit and repairing the damage inflicted by the shifty Tory Eton boy cabal.

I am so impressed by Mrs May. She has restored democracy to the Cabinet and appears to be standing-up for ordinary tax-paying Britons rather than greasing the palms of tax exiles and crooks such as Philip Green who I won’t even dignify with the knighthood.

If I were Mrs May, I would call a snap general election right now, bolster her majority and blow the poisonous, resentful cling-ons in her party out of the Palace of Westminster. Rat number one is George Osborne who is already biting at Mrs May’s ankles and pissing in the tent.

At least Mr Cameron left office to pursue the filthy lucre that keeps SamCam in Jimmy Choos. Osborne STILL thinks he has a crack at power despite proving completely inept as chancellor and (thank you very much) frightening Britain into voting to leave the European Union. As Machiavellians go, Osborne is about as fiendish as Benny Hill.

I would urge Mrs May to wield the axe and cut out the cancer in the Tory party. She made such a good start. Perhaps the electorate would boot Osborne out and back to his stately home given half a chance. He is not any more fit for public office than the egregious Keith Vaz. Incidentally, thoroughly enjoyed Private Eye’s crowing over the popping of the Vaz balloon.

It was with a heavy heart that I stepped out into Bloomsbury Square and realised London Fashion Week was upon us again. The fashion pack always put me in mind of Roald Dahl’s The Witches: a gaggle of scrawny women and gender neutrals swooping round on their broomsticks to watch clothing you or I wouldn’t go trick or treating in.

Patient Mrs May kept up the tradition of inviting the beautiful people to No 10 Downing Street for a pre-London Fashion Week jamboree. Dame Vivienne arrived in a tribute T-shirt to Mrs May: curious considering she is a lifelong socialist. Still, Mrs May is a Westwood customer and a woman so perhaps Dame Vivienne’s principles understandably stretched like a rubber band.

I am fond of Dame Vivienne and even fonder of her husband Andreas. They are from that last titan generation of fashion designers who actually had something new to say that didn’t involve trussing anorexic models up like capons. If the shows for London Fashion Week so far are anything to go by it appears that straight jackets and Bacofoil will be in next season.

Mrs May was even gracious enough to invite SamCam to the No 10 fashion bash and this before the former Prime Minister’s wife has even stitched a gusset for her debut fashion collection. It must irritate trained fashion designers that folk like old mother Beckham and Samantha Cameron decide to throw some schmutter down a runway and call themselves the second coming of Balenciaga.

Mrs May will have dark forces lined-up against her if she is going to take-on the precariously privileged pigs in troughs. She has enemies without and within the Palace of Westminster who will be all too keen to preserve the status quo. The electorate can protect Mrs May if she chooses to trust them and let them go to the vote again soon.

I could only manage ten minutes of Question Time on the radio today. A hideous female called Patience Wheatcroft (a failed newspaper editor I believe) was bleating-on like another sore loser and Brexit denier about Britain being doomed. She was worried about the uncertainty caused by Brexit. Uncertainty? I don’t think Britain has ever been more certain since the onset of the two world wars when we resolved never to surrender to tyranny.

All the doom mongering about Britain being isolated post Brexit has only come true as far as the EU is concerned. We’re still paying the dollar and yet all the other EU presidents and crackpots go on a cruise together to plan how best to move forward without bothering to invite Mrs May. You’re better off out, love. Champions don’t sup with losers.

I would like to see Mrs May plant those kitten heels underneath the Cabinet table at No 10 for a very, very long time. It would be super to see her boot Speaker Bercow out of the House with a stiletto in his bare red bottom. That tart of a wife can sling her hook as well so we can restore some dignity to Parliament.

When the historians pick over the bones of these interesting political times I think they will see Mrs May as a fearless, no-nonsense leader who mucked out the pig sty that Parliament had become. While we’re on the subject of the Palace of Westminster, on what level can that glorious building cost billions to restore?

I would imagine Pugin’s Palace of Westminster cost no more than thousands to build in the 19th Century. How did we get from thousands to billions? Something is clearly rotten in the state of world finance. But we all knew that didn’t we when a barrow boy like Philip Green could become a billionaire and Bernie Ecclestone’s daughters behave like Madame DuBarry. Fix it Mrs May and we will all owe you a debt of gratitude.