My friend Paul is revered in DJ circles for his vast collection of novelty singles, and his team of ironic selecters, wearing masks of 70s cartoon characters, regularly appear at hipster clubs laying Indonesian porno grooves on the jaded ears of the weird beards. “I’ve got the strangest gig,” he said, “so you’re going to come with me, undercover. Some bald creep wants me to play what I think are the sexiest singles ever made, all night long, in a bedroom in… you won’t believe it… Downing Street.”

Consider the facts that inform this story. A self-confessed yet inefficient cocaine user, who lost three jobs due to lying to his bosses, who has fathered an unverifiable amount of children by a variety of since abandoned women (many of whom he was seeing simultaneously), who is currently under investigation by the police due to questions arising from his alleged financial impropriety with a pole-dancer, who was a high-profile member of an organised hooligan gang of teenage vandals familiar to local law enforcement agencies, who assisted a known criminal in plotting a violent assault, who rarely turns up to work (and when he does is woefully underprepared with usually disastrous consequences), and who is supported almost entirely by the public purse, is fathering yet another child. Where is the Daily Mail exposé condemning this disgraceful burden on society?

It is nowhere to be seen. Because this man isn’t your “drunk, criminal and feckless working-class” cousin, who dropped out of school at 14 and fell in with a bad crowd, or a young immigrant who must now be deported for dealing the kind of drugs Michael Gove used to neck in the Notting Hill 90s. No. This feckless criminal is our prime minister, Boris Piccaninny Watermelon Letterbox Cake Bumboys Vampires Haircut Wall-Spaffer Spunk-Burster Fuck-Business Fuck-the-Families Get-Off-My-Fucking-Laptop Girly-Swot Big-Girl’s-Blouse Chicken-frit Hulk-Smash Noseringed-Crusties Death-Humbug Technology-Lessons Surrender-Bullshit French-Turds Dog-Whistle Get-Stuffed FactcheckUK@CCHQ 88%-lies Get-Brexit-Done Bung-a-Bob-for-Big-Ben’s-Bongs Cocaine-Event Spiritual-Worth Virus-Handshake Three-Men-and-a-Dog Johnson. And normal rules no longer apply. If indeed they ever did.

But the columnist Sarah Vine, a cess-gargling Barbamama made entirely out of cess, whose Daily Mail cess fountains vacillate from the foulest acrid cruelty to headily perfumed sentimentality, has declared that we must now be “kind”. It is the sort of brand-derailing U-turn statement the skull-faced demon Skeletor made in the 1985 He-Man and She-Ra Christmas Special, when the attention of a cute puppy finally turned him good. “What’s coming over me?! Whatever it is, I don’t like it! Stop licking my face, you dratted dog! Get away from me! You’re drowning me!” Following the virtuous examples of Vine and Skeletor, I am not about to be rude about Turds’ unborn baby. I may, however, be rude about Turds’ convenient dog, Dilyn. Remember him? Thought not.

Last year, Turds adopted a Welsh rescue dog and spirited it away thoughtlessly, with his intended fiancee, to a grey world of stone and steel where it did not even speak the language. Dominic Cumming, who presumably suggested both the proposed marriage and the de facto dognapping, had calculated that the jack russell’s cute antics could single-pawedly detoxify Turds’ brand in the runup to the election. And on the day that a compliant Dilyn urinated against a carefully placed sculpture of loudmouthed David Lammy, pollsters reported a massive bounce in Tory support. Dilyn was made to wear a dog’s coat depicting a union flag, always a winner with the public, who presumably assumed the dog had bought the garment himself with his own funds, and chosen to wear it as an act of support for his master, rather than simply having been stuffed into it against his will by the cruel finger of Cumming.

When the true history of Brexit, and its role in enabling a calculated far-right coup, is revealed it is unlikely that Dilyn will be spared his share of the blame, and the weak dog will rightly be held to account for normalising the corrupt campaign’s public face. If Dilyn is clever enough to choose his own racist clothing, then surely he can be tried in the courts, following the final overthrow of Cumming’s fascist cabal, and sentenced accordingly, along with Cumming’s own personal lapdog, Laura Kuenssberg.

Peak Dilyn dog was last December and the compliant creature’s appearances and press opportunities have faded this year. Cumming knows the electorate hunger for new novelties and the shelf life of a Welsh dog is short. Insiders say Cumming set Turds a rigorous schedule of carefully timed procreative activity as long ago as last summer, so that the next dead cat distraction could arrive on time. And I can verify this. Because last October I found myself, standing next to DJ Paul, both of us sweating into our Dick Dastardly masks, as we spun our sexy sounds in a dimly lit Westminster bedroom.

Serge Gainsbourg’s Je t’aime segued into Man’s rare 1969 debut Erotica as Cumming lurked behind us, wearing just tennis shorts and a baseball cap, shouting instructions towards the bed through a rowing cox’s megaphone. Suddenly he became furiously convinced that our selections were not doing the trick and tore Jacqueline Taïeb’s breathless 1967 yé-yé stomp Sept heures du matin from the turntable, crying: “For God’s sake boys. This is sex music!” Replacing the record with his own worn copy of the J Geils Band’s 1981 hit Centrefold, Cumming danced round the pre-marital bed bellowing exhortations through his megaphone and singing along: “My blood runs cold! My memory has just been sold!” We made our excuses and left.

But Cumming’s efforts paid off and Turds has already announced paternity leave, though how the country will cope without his famously hands-on style of leadership is anyone’s guess. Floodwaters rise. Viruses throb in cracks. Far-right racists return from Russian meetings. Rights erode and advisers resign. A baby! Look!! A beautiful baby!!!