David Cameron, undoubtedly one of Britain’s most distinguished Prime Ministers (ever), is being paid an advance of £800,000 for his memoirs. I can’t quite get my head round how the publishers hope to recoup their money from a pile of books which will be remaindered before you can say David Cameron. I doubt we’ll learn anything new about e.g. penises and pig’s heads. Anyway (moving on), I hope Theresa has a good agent. She’ll have time on her hands soon, and her tell-all story will be a guaranteed page turner for those who find trampling around in farmers’ fields a turn-on. On the other hand, is there a story of a life which could enthuse one with as much anticipation as hers? Will she have the gall to write a memoir? Even the Daily Mail might baulk at the thought of publishing it. On yet another hand – to be generous – she could write a memoir of just the last three years, a kiss and tell account of the ‘bastards’ (as John Major described some of his colleagues), telling Brexit as it was, namely a story of the Tory Party in meltdown. But she won’t. There’s something about the phrase ‘vicar’s daughter’ which seems to sum her up, even if being a vicar’s daughter means nothing at all. I’m a quarry manager’s son, and I can’t think how that could possibly influence anyone’s opinion of me. Yet still, I rather hope that once the sad woman is released from her self-imposed purgatory she decides it’s best to let rip. Go on, Theresa, in your new found freedom, you might have something interesting to say. Chapter One: ‘Let Me Be Honest.’ It has a ring to it. Chapter Two: 'Let Me Be Clear.' Chapter Three: 'Let Me Be' (etc., etc.)
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