Dilyn the dog’s Downing Street diary (as told to Rod Liddle)

1 May 2021

9:00 AM

1 May 2021

9:00 AM

I heard them rowing again this morning, look you. I had just completed my first dump of the day in Allegra Stratton’s handbag when I heard their voices spiralling upwards, the Man and the Woman. They’re not in a good place right now, which is fine by me. A plague on both their houses. Mimsy, woke Carrie, who purchased me under the mistaken impression I was a Peke who would lie gently across her bloody lap all day. And that shambling albino wreck, kind of half-dog half-man, who apparently runs the country, when his wife lets him. Money seemed to be at the heart of their disagreement — it often is. She likes spending it, he is somewhat averse, especially on stuff like furnishings: she complains, in a shrill manner, about the taste of the previous occupier who appears to have been a man named John Lewis. Carrie bought an opulent rug recently for some humongous sum, a ghastly emerald and gold creation handwoven by impecunious navvies from the Maghreb. It has been much improved by the rich brown streaks I have added by shuffling my arse across it on a daily basis. Iechyd da, etc.

The lies, the many lies. The first is that I was ‘rescued’ by these highborn and kindly benefactors from a dog refuge in Wales because I was about to be put down on account of a gammy jaw. Balls. My jaw was just fine until I entered Downing Street. Then, early on, Carrie had some of her friends round for a ‘girly kitchen supper’, which turned out to be a noisome vegetarian meze prepared by a mincing halfwit. I was dozing on the sofa when a haggard and porcine ex-deb weighing 200lb called ‘Pippa’ deposited her entire gargantuan torso on my head. Everyone in the room heard the crack as my jawbone snapped in half and I woke up with a tongue lolling out at 90 degrees to my mouth, despite Sting’s Greatest Hits playing on the deck. That cost a bit to put right, according to the albino wreck. And it hurt.

Lie number two regards the Yoda who used to live next door — Javid or something. He claimed I had displayed amorous intentions towards his own dog, a cavapoo named Bailey. No, Mr Javid, no. Bailey is male — and while I may be a dog I am not that way inclined (we dogs tend to be rightish on gender politics). What I actually wanted to do to that simpering, slobbering idiot was kill it, rip its stupid ears off. And I would have done, too, if the albino hadn’t got there first and sacked his ass. Bailey used to run up to me, tail wagging, an expression on his silly face of affectless incomprehension. I would respond each time by biting him in the throat. I can’t stand spaniels, even half-breed spaniels. They are so gullible.

In the room, the journos come and go, but not talking of Michelangelo. Just carping, flinging barbs at the wretched albino. I slink around their ankles and am occasionally rewarded with an embarrassed pat, a scrunch of the fur beneath my ears. Any port in a storm, Laura and Robert. Fling what you like at the madman, I think. Nothing ever sticks to him. He is like the creature in Bulgakov’s Heart of a Dog — Sharik, reputedly the product of a bizarre lab experiment which backfires. Impervious to everything and kind of blind. He almost died, you know, on a respirator. Ironically it woke him up a bit. But not for long. Then the baffling, obliterating ‘bants’ returned and truth once again lost all meaning.

Another misapprehension. I actually really liked that weirdo Cummings. That’s why I tried to hump his leg. Not a sexual thing, but an excitement thing. I got bad press — but hell, you should see what the albino gets up to on that score when nobody’s looking. I divined in Cummings a seriousness of intent, a disdain and a penetrating intelligence at least on a par with a German Shepherd — high praise from a dog. But he has gone. I think they had him put down. Maybe there was something wrong with his jaw, too.

Out in the Downing Street garden for my morning walk with the albino, snuffling among the shrubs for the scent of a rat. Entirely untrained, through laziness, I am on a leash. The albino is ranting about how we should let the bodies pile up, how all this Covid business has gone on for too long. He is a little distrait. One of the Downing Street coppers, with whom I converse from time to time, told me he’s ‘up to his neck’ in sleaze. Maybe they’ll put him down next then. Once, at Chequers, I disgraced myself somehow — I forget the details. The albino said: ‘Someone shoot that bloody dog.’ Such are the narrow confines of my world — a rug, a handbag to dump in, a bush to sniff — that part of me was tempted to concur.

We’re at Chequers. Spads, ministers and Carrie’s loud friends. They have bought me a ball from Conran. It is pastel blue with a tiny BLM motif. A young well-groomed woman picks it up and says: ‘Here, doggie — ball! Ball!’ I’m like, WTF. ‘Here, Dilyn, ball,’ she says again, bouncing the ball around in her nice hands. I look at her levelly. ‘Do you want to chase the ball?’ she asks. I stand there. She throws the ball, looking around her for approval. She retrieves the ball. I still stand there. ‘Get the ball!’ she shouts in a falsetto of desperation, preparing to throw it again. No, I won’t. Screw you. I walk up to her. ‘Why don’t you want to play ball?’ she asks, mussing the hair on my head. I don’t really know, I think, and wee on her leg.
As told to Rod Liddle

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