Dear Malcolm, How do you do? Super, I hope

Click to follow
The Independent Online
Last week the Foreign Office revealed that an Iranian diplomat had been expelled for allegedly forging letters from Douglas Hurd, the Foreign Secretary. Now further fragments have been found in a dustbin near the embassy.

DEAR Malcolm,

What a pity my last letter to you about that little matter of the Bosnian Muslims got leaked to the press, but I do think it was clever to blame it all on Iranian intelligence. I think we have hidden our footprints well. Everyone thinks it was just an inexpert attempt to discredit the British Government]

Dear Malcolm,

How do you do? How is the wife and the family? Super, I hope. We are all fine. My wife has been doing a little jerrymandering in her spare time, and I a little philandering, so all is well that ends well. Are you not tired of those who say we have been corrupted by too many years in power? Such rot, is it not? Maggie is as sound as ever] And we all seem to own castles. I would say we have not done too badly. It is just that we have a different sense of morality from everybody else.

Have you had any thoughts on the Bosnian Muslims? No, I haven't either. Some day we must get together and think of what we should have done for them. But not now. There is too much to live for]

Dear Malcolm,

I suppose you are getting ready for the D-Day celebrations over there. I do not have many memories of D-Day. Perhaps I was sozzled. What about you? Were you born? It all seems a large pity to me. I always liked the Germans. Now all they do is complain. They do not like our beef. Well, who does? No one wants to get mad cow disease, but those Europeans fuss far too much about good food. What is a little salmonella between political allies? 'Laugh, and the world laughs with you.'

Dear Malc,

It seems that so many of us have become fine diarists, and thankfully without Mrs Onassis's fearful secrecy. Writing a diary seems an innocent enough pastime to me. No reason the world shouldn't read the thing as soon as it's finished. I wish I could get down to writing a diary, but after a whole day of luxurious lunches, pushing papers and leading libidinous people who show no restraint whatsoever, I am too tired. I cannot even mumble into an old- fashioned tape-recorder about who laughed at my jokes and what the papers say. I just climb into bed with a stretch of electric flex and I'm off.

Dear Malcolm,

John seems to be suffering from the heat. It is his silly season. It might behove us to keep an eye on him. Emitting edicts left, right and centre. Any moment he'll be on about pit bulls again and there will be no stopping him then. I always said perhaps you, or I, would make the better PM. He's below-stairs, and in the summer months it shows.

Dear Malcolm,

What amazes me is that no other government seems to have as many sex scandals as us. Don't they know how to have fun? A little debauchery keeps the public at bay. You know the real trouble with single mums? They stay in of an evening. A truly stable home environment consists of 2.4 children, a nanny, a combined income, a Swiss bank account and parents who go their separate ways. This is what we English believe in.

The older I get, the more I agree with the Malaysian PM, that democracy causes economic decline, homosexuality and single-parent families. This is perhaps where we have gone wrong. How is the Pergau Dam deal coming along, by the way?

O how I long for the hills of home, lambs' testicles, the smell of burning books, Allah that Allah this. Give me my deportation papers and I will go, let me leave this empty embassy this cold country this soft milk-bellied land of no principles and few assassinations . . . I have had enough enough of reading madmen's diaries piles of tabloids Foreign Office memos. I do not like to forge signatures I am no good at it . . . a wasted life on a little island full of degenerates . . . Why did I come, just to sit in this attic room with my thesaurus and dictionary of cliches . . .

Malcolm - It has been too long since we last shared a bed at the Savoy, or exposed our privates to each other's children. Let me know when next you have a free afternoon, and don't forget the amyl nitrate this time. 'One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name']

Love,

Comments