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Mrs Crackenthorpe's Diary – 14 November edition

Mrs Crackenthorpe's Diary – 14 November edition
2 min read

With the nights drawing in, Mrs C is enjoying the chance to get both mellow and fruitful. But that isn’t stopping her from revelling in her usual diet of scandal and sauce…

So farewell then, Gavin Williamson; another notch on the ministerial bedpost of hubris. A dear friend tells Mrs C of an occasion when Gav was posing outside the Ministry of Defence with a copy of The Sun, having backed a campaign to save the lives of Kevin and Dazz – two heroic Belgian Shepherd dogs who’d served in Afghanistan.  

She urges you to seek the story out online for an illustration of how a skilful snapper can make use of perspective – Gavin was not, as may appear, in actualitie beside the foam-mouthed hounds. Rather, the somewhat petrified then-defence sec was spied far closer to a neighbouring postcode. 

Where to turn for entertainment these long winter nights? Mrs C’s quill shakes with delight as she recalls the entry of handsome young Matt Hancock into the jungle to dine on kangaroo’s anus. Shortly before the show aired, she hears his somewhat over-eager aide fiercely berated journalists for failing to reproduce a quote from West Suffolk’s biggest political fish, in which he bored on about publicising the Dyslexia Bill as being his true motivation for heading down under. 

Hot on the heels of the indignant broadside came a meeker follow up, in which the hapless bag carrier admitted he hadn’t read the full article, owing to adverts on the page. At time of writing, our Matt has yet to be heard discussing the bill in the camp. 

Spotted in a House of Lords ante-room, a red box to which has been attached a post-it inscribed with the name of that most elusive of peers, Lord Lebedev. Mrs C’s spy says this item would have contained Lord L’s seals, which all peers receive have been subject to a Covid-related backlog of late. Since narry a sniff of the Ruski heartthrob has been seen in the posh end of Parli since his ennoblement by buddy Boris, one wonders when, or indeed if, he’ll ever pick ‘em up. 


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