Cherie says she loves me, but I'm not so sure; by Humphrey the Downing Street Cat

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I can only go by what I read in the newspapers, which is that Cherie Blair thinks I stink, harbour vile diseases and pee on the duvets. Yes, the press report merely said Cherie thought cats were "unhygienic" but we all know what that means.

See, the world divides into cat-haters and cat-lovers. Cat lovers prize our independence, killer instincts and unashamed enjoyment of physical pleasure - yes, pleasure! All the unfashionable, politically incorrect pleasures, from the scrunch of small hot bones, to the warmth of a roaring fire and the knowledge that one is going to stay asleep all damned day, to - well, let's face it, loud and promiscuous sex in the open air.

Are the Blairs an open-air sex family? I think not. I have long harboured doubts about Labour. I think they're keener on the soft, wet, endlessly grateful dependency culture of the average labrador.

They have no respect for hunting. It's all "oh, the poor fox" and "oh the poor wee mousie". Pah!

And this lot are puritans to boot. "Off welfare and into work", eh? Welfare is my lifestyle, Cherie darling. Family values? A blatant attack on the sexually liberated lifestyle which the feline community has enjoyed for generations. Over-indulgence? They've made "fat cats" hate figures for half the nation.

I'm a professional. They say "pose with the nice lady, Humphrey" and - OK, Peter, fellow feline - I'll pose. It goes with the job. But frankly, they've got a lot of ear-scratching, cosseting and fine dinners to come before they buy my trust. If not... well, these guys better remember: around these parts, Sir Humphrey always wins.

Photograph: Rebecca Naden