Monday

The Pope, who is an uppity little man, is not returning my e-mails. I’m mulling this over while hanging upside down from a rafter in my very suave and desirable North London belfry. I cannot help but consider it a slur. The Pope is deliberately undermining me.

As he knows full well, it is vital that we meet. European Union Trade Directive #700976, Sub-Clause 9, Paragraph 7.10 (Wimples; free movement of) isn’t simply going to write itself. I do not doubt that he is jealous of my position as European Commissioner for Trade, especially when his own authority is confined to minor matters such as immortal souls, eternal damnation, and being God’s mouthpiece on Earth. Even so, I have half a mind to transmogrify into a bat, fly over to Rome and have this out face to face.

Alas, the merest whiff of holy water can bring me out in a terrible rash, and I am running low on Nivea.

Tuesday

Over to Brussels today. President Sarkozy of France is also undermining me. Frankly, I find it perfectly tiresome when these minor European dignitaries seek to involve themselves in the serious business of politics.

Still, my skin is thick enough to take it. Even in the places I don’t have scales.

My only regret is that Mr Sarkozy has chosen to make this personal. This is petty and wrong, and something that I would never do. Still, I understand his feelings. Some might call it “tall poppy syndrome”. Obviously I am an impressive, tall and charismatic poppy, and little Mr Sarkozy is not very tall at all.

Wednesday

How perfectly tiresome. I am surveying the past week’s papers over a Bloody Mary that required no tomato juice and may, or may not, have led to the demise of a young lady called Mary, and I have suddenly realised that Nelson Mandela is patently undermining me, too.

I am deeply embroiled in the most vital and important of negotiations about the export of cloth-covered buttons to Tajikistan, and this so-called internationalist affects not to have the slightest interest. It’s all Zimbabwe and HIV, and other pretend little concerns like that. I accept that he is probably jealous of my success and influence. Nonetheless, his naked animosity is deeply unhelpful at this critical time.

Thursday

It is Nicolas Sarkozy who particularly upsets me. I have half a mind to put him over my knee. You might say I groomed him. We were very close.

It was the classic Platonic love story – boy meets suave and dignified elder statesman with enviable connections and impeccable skin. I taught him about the Anglo-Saxon model, he taught me about France.

One day, he took me to the Château de Versailles. I was thinking of buying it at the time, with the help of a small loan from Geoffrey Robinson.

Ah, memories! How we laughed over my modest jokes about single-handedly creating Tony Blair! It was a glorious day. The only tense moment was when we stepped into the Hall of Mirrors. Obviously, I don’t show up in mirrors. He got quite a fright. The silly boy.

Friday

A sudden shower last night, and my favourite expensively tailored Italian suit is quite ruined. It’s not easy to get them made, with slits for the wings. I don’t know who this God chap thinks he is. They’ll want me on Newsnight again, I suppose, to deliver some sort of rebuke.

As if I wasn’t busy enough. Who do you think it is who makes sure that Taiwan has enough German zips, and keeps the Belgian yoghurt supplies flowing into the Philippines? Mandelson, that’s who. Beavering away in the dark places. Well, I’m back in the light now. No need to lock up your children. I shan’t bite. Much.

Explore World News

• Iraq News

• US & Americas News

• Europe News

• Middle East News

• Asia News

• Africa News

• Ireland News

Times Recommends

• Cheney delivers warning to Moscow
• Le tout Paris asks Dati: 'Who's the daddy?
• Palin lawyers are accused of stalling inquiry