Stately, plump Gordon rising in the morning to shit, shower and shave (not necessarily in that order, mind), before making crosses in the air and gurgling in his throat.

‘D’you see,’ he cries. ‘D’you see what’s happened now?’

Ah, sure, the peasantry don’t understand – they have no comprehension of how difficult it is for an individual in such a position of authority as Gordon’s! To have a huge shouldered flatfoot as a permanent fixture parked outside your frontdoor, loaded firearm discreetly out of sight (no need to frighten the women and children), while wifey supervises the preparation of morning porridge. To have your first meeting of the morning at ten o’clock (God forsaken hour!). While forlornly attempting a smile at all those dour grey faces. No, the peasants with their daily routine neatly dictated, could have no idea!

‘Another bloody target missed! D’you hear me? Another one!’ Gordon daintily wipes the froth from the corner of his mouth with a white handkerchief. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say the ruddy conservatives are the root cause of this fiasco.’

‘Which target, dear?’ asks wifey with some concern in her large limpid eyes. ‘I didn’t think we worried about targets anymore? They’re there for the newspapers, isn’t that what you said?’

‘Teen pregnancy,’ Gordon shrieked (see here). ‘It’s the damn teen pregnancy target.’

‘Not enough, dear?’

‘Too bleeding many!’

‘Oh – Couldn’t Lord whatisname fix that?’

‘How?’

‘You have your tie on back-to-front again, dear.’

‘Shit!’ Gordon adjusts the offending apparel.

‘And your socks, sweetheart. They go under the trouser cuffs now, don’t they?’

‘Shit shit shit!.’ More frantic adjustments are made.

‘Get Lord whatsit to explain to the press. The randy aristocracy are shafting everything that moves, dear. Birth rates climbing among the young. Teen pregnancy rising due to ancienne noblesse.’

‘Due to what?’ He makes hurried notes on his vest.

‘Tories, dear. The blue bloods all vote Tory, don’t they? They’re impregnating these girls to bring you down, simple conspiracy. Lord thingamabob should be able to turn it into a national scandal. All the people will be up in arms. You know how the great unwashed hate the aristos, dear. Specially the idea of them waving the old “leaveitgo” near the holy-of-holies of young Beryl at number four during her GCSE year.’

‘But will it bring the numbers of teenage pregnancy down?’

‘Don’t be silly, dear. You’d have to have a society like Holland, Belgium, Germany or France to do that! No. What you need to do is first expose Tory hypocrisy. Then increase the target. Our message should be we need desperately to counter the falling birthrate of the indigenous population. Everything will be fine after that.’

Gordon smiles. He’d thought of another answer to this little problem. Like here . He’d get a good price for a bulk purchase. And it was foolproof! Things were looking up already this morning!