He’s a whining wimp but, after practising Come Dancing with the PM’s muse, nimbly dodges more than his fair share of mugs being chucked at the walls at Number 10. Who threw the first mug against the wall when Gormless Grayling (as he fondly dubbed him) lost the vote to chair the Intelligence and Security Committee to Julian Lewis was a mystery. It wasn’t Gormless G himself for sure, but the row was enough to give Dilyn the urge to cock a leg over Dom’s sneakers.
The patsies preening themselves around the Cabinet table quivered, enrapt, as they’d barely recovered from the tantrums over the leaking of the Joint Committee’s demands on Northern Ireland, Keir’s slap-downs at PMQs and the prospect of having to comply with the European Court ruling against the US Privacy Shield just when world-beating trade deals hit the buffers.
Dom really shouldn’t have booted Dilyn up the rear. It’s one thing banning brats and pets from No 10 but being unkind to animals (bar foxes and badgers) transgresses what’s left of Tory principles. Besides, why shouldn’t Dilyn chew on whatever red box or Cabinet doodle that’s in his way? The fault, therefore, for the draft of the Tory faithful’s summer reading floating into the hands of some journo, lies with the kicker or with my nemesis, that resident cat.
At least once a week, the chief brat tries to restrain Dilyn from getting onto Eurostar to cadge frites and waffles off the PM’s negotiators whose dim-wittedness Dilyn explains in terms of inbred British bulldogs. Chancellor Merkel isn’t so sure. “Nein”, a poodle is a “Handlanger” and “Ja”, she knows a lapdog when she sees one, and a gossiper for the price of a doggy chew at his favourite bar, La Mort Subite. Trois doggy chews, a can of Stella and one bottle of Tripel Karmeliet and he’d agreed with the EU: unethical bigoted Brexit dogma, disregard for elders and experts, and careless contracts given to mates all explain the mess facing the PM. He duly spilled the beans to Mr Frost.
That was almost Dilyn’s undoing. What really did for him was momentarily forgetting his border sniffer dog training: Frosty snitched on him wagging his tail in furious agreement every time a Eurocrat called out Gove’s disinformation. Dilyn’s now out for revenge on those ending pet passports. For starters, he’s married a French bulldog, applied for dual nationality and hopes to see more than one litter of monstrously badly behaved pups in No 10.
He doesn’t need bribing to plaster ‘Bollox to Brexit’ all over the PM’s yellow mini. Nor is he averse to helping Led by Donkeys on the cliffs, protesting by the pier with Sussex MPs and councillors, and a bit of subterfuge to save his backside from the Bullingdon boys lazing by the PM’s pool: he knows the doghouse too well for comfort. So, to put the PM off the scent, he’s chewed Putin’s face off Carrie’s plush photo cushions, buried Dom’s Ladybird book of Das Kapital in the compost heap and left scraps of Denis Thatcher’s memoirs all the way from the Bollinger-stained loo-rug right up to Rishi’s front door. Job done.
