How many small plastic toy egg casings could be hidden in, for example, a Michael Gove? And, if we knew this figure, and had an accurate idea of potential volunteer multiple plastic toy egg couriers, could we extrapolate from it the volume of goods that might be secretly transported, in this fashion, both in and out of our ring-fenced island nation? And why is knowing this number an important part of planning for the no-deal Brexit that our uncooperative friends in George Soros’s Europe, and the traitorous MPs who collaborate with them, are cruelly forcing on us through no fault of our own?

A civil servant I was in Woodcraft Folk with 43 years ago regularly texts me about bizarre developments in the National Centre For No-Deal Planning, despite risking her job to do so. “They’ve got us hard at work finding out how we get components and medicines and essential items into the country, if or when the supply lines break down. Don’t forget to stockpile toilet roll, Stewey! It may end up being the only viable form of currency!! LOL!!!”

On Wednesday morning, Tallulah (not her real name) informed me, she was told to coordinate the clandestine purchase, via thousands of press-ganged schoolchildren and cross-Channel swimmers, of as many Kinder ™ eggs and tubs of Vaseline ®, respectively, as she could acquire without arousing suspicion.

“Suspicion of what?” I asked. “I don’t know,” Tallulah answered, “but we don’t want to set off a Kinder ™ egg and Vaseline ® buying panic. I have to go now. Dominic Cumming has just come in. He’s wearing really tight cycling shorts and glaring at everyone like a horrible owl.”

Kinder ™ eggs and Vaseline ®. What was Boris Piccaninny Watermelon Letterbox Cake Bumboys Vampires Haircut Wall-Spaffer Spunk-Burster Fuck-Business Fuck-The-Families Get-Off-My-Fucking-Laptop Turds Johnson up to now? I wondered.

Later on, I read that our lying, self-serving prime minister had visited Leeds prison the previous day, in a non-election campaign visibility stunt, last week’s booing Scots folk a distant memory.

Boris Johnson’s colleague Michael Gove, a known former cocaine user, owns a £493 Manchu cabinet and has nothing illegal in his underpants. Johnson himself famously only managed to avoid eating some cocaine by fortuitously sneezing it all away as he tried to ingest it, in an incident he described as an “inconclusive event”.

A 38-year-old father of one, caught with a quarter of a kilogram of cocaine in his underpants last May, is currently detained for four and a half years in Leeds at Her Majesty’s pleasure, while better-connected powder enthusiasts are asked to form a government, at Her Majesty’s invitation. It’s almost as if there is one law for upper-class Conservative drug-dabbling MPs and another for working-class drug mules.

During his prison visit, Watermelon was photogenically amused, for the benefit of the compliant press and the gullible public, by an x-ray showing how anally inserted Kinder ™ egg interiors can be used to smuggle into prison everything from tobacco and drugs to mobile phone parts. Kinder ™ egg suppositories are already responsible for a greater flow of goods annually than the government’s botched Brexit ferry scheme.

If I was prime minister, on seeing the anal Kinder ™ x-ray, I would have said: “It gives a whole new meaning to the words ‘Kinder Surprise ™’!” The electorate would have thought I was hilarious, but Wall-Spaffer appeared to have missed the magic moment and blown it. Later on I would come to realise that his magpie mind had merely moved on to other things.

On Thursday morning at 12.30am, Tallulah texted me again. She had gone back into the National Centre For No-Deal Planning, having forgotten her mobile phone, and swiftly secreted herself under a desk when she heard strange snuffling coming from a frosted-glass side room. She pressed her phone up to the opaque window and I listened in.

“You must do it, Michael,” said a voice, that of Turds Johnson. “You are in charge of no-deal planning. We need to test my plan and I can’t let anyone find out about it. You are my most loyal servant.”

“I am so not, Boris!” It was Michael Gove, squealing as he spoke. “I stabbed you in the back, remember? Why do I have to do this? Can’t Cumming do it? It is undignified. May I remind you that I am the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster?” Suddenly there was a loud slurping.

“Cumming,” Letterbox exploded, “you can’t eat Vaseline ®, man. It’s not a food. Put the lid back on.” Dominic Cumming’s musical and mellifluous voice protested: “But Vaseline ® is delicious, Boris. I ate it in Russia every day and it kept me warm, like a Bovril made of grease. It is wrong treacle, old Popeye Cumming’s petroleum spinach. And anyway, it’s all over my hands now. So I can just lick it off, whether you like it or not. Besides which, Boris, we may all have to develop a taste for non-standard foods, like Vaseline ®, or insects, in the darkness before the New Dawn.”

“Stop eating the Vaseline ®, Cumming!” It was Spunk-Burster again. “Eat up all the Kinder ™ chocolate. We need to dispose of the evidence. No one must know my plan.”

Then Gove appeared to be shouting, something about how he now realised from personal experience how important it was to reach a deal. And then Tallulah’s phone went dead.

As the sun rose on Thursday, I watched Breakfast TV and hoped she would call again. Bumboys, Gove and Cumming appeared bleary-eyed at a press conference. Cumming had a brown mouth and sticky hands and he kept sucking his fingers when he thought no one was looking. Gove goved silently into the distance, like a shell-shocked air-man. Boris stepped forward and proudly announced that, in an all-night strategy session, great strides had been made in no-deal planning.