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I KNOW, I do know. You may cease laughing.
After I took the job as ethics adviser to the Prime Minister certainly one of my associates stated to me: ‘Your identify is Christopher Geidt – not Christopher Robin, you idiot. Your life is in Downing Avenue, not the Hundred Acre Wooden. Boris isn’t a nice-but-dim Pooh Bear, until you take into account the s*** he leaves behind that others need to clear up.”
Then, he added, all animated and bouncy like Tigger: ‘Ethics in Downing Avenue? You’re extra prone to discover a refugee volunteering for a free airplane journey to Rwanda. You may’t be the keeper of somebody’s conscience once they don’t have one!’
Effectively, I can’t say there weren’t clues to what lay forward. My predecessor discovered that Priti Patel had bullied civil servants and Boris gave him ‘the rubber ear’, as you in Glasgow would say.
But, I felt I may make my mark. Having labored because the Queen’s non-public secretary and coping with Charles and Andrew I used to be used to jumped-up toffs.
However no sooner was I within the job than you lot had been giving me an ear bashing over the flat refurb story.
Sure, I admit Boris managed to persuade me the element of how the £40k donor who had bankrolled the Louis 14th wallpaper was merely ‘a lacking trade’.
And though I lifted a suspecting Roger Moore of an eyebrow on the time, to be trustworthy, this implicit admission of gross stupidity was one I didn’t discover too troublesome to just accept.
However then got here Partygate. Sure, on the file I stated that the PM’s rationalization may have been fuller. Nonetheless, the reality is it was a Twiggy of an excuse. In the meantime, my persistence, and maybe my very own credibility, was carrying skinny.
The ultimate straw, nevertheless, was the metal affair. Boris stated he was decided to proceed commerce tariffs towards China. Now, the main points are tougher to work out than the rationale for Liz Truss’s cupboard appointment, however I believed this will surely contain him breaking the ministerial code.
The query is that this: why did he ask me for my consent, like a creepy, aged Victorian gentleman asking for a beautiful younger daughter’s hand in marriage? I actually don’t know. Maybe he needed me contained in the tent.
Sure, I’d talked about giving it one other six months. But it surely’s a bit like hoping that verruca in your foot goes to get higher by itself.
Then the likes of cheeky John McDonnell in contrast me to a ‘tin of whitewash’. As a former military man, I’m certain you’ll concur with the sentiment; ‘F*** this for a sport of sojies.’
Will Boris get a brand new ethics advisor, somebody who can set the ethical rules to which he may adhere?
Effectively, he’ll have to seek out somebody who can confuse the phrases ‘work occasion’ and ‘s**t-faced social gathering’.
Maybe a nine-year-old, paid off with a bar of Toblerone and an X Field subscription, who thinks Pooh Bear Boris is moderately cute.
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