Only another week, thank God. My hand is already calloused and misshapen from pressing the proletarian flesh. Then last night I woke up shouting, "Hear, hear, "in response to Margaret's snores, which will give you some idea of how far things have gone. . .
He prefers golf with his chums to affairs of state. He calls his wife "the boss," grouses about the "reptiles" of Fleet Street, and is addicted to a "tincture or two" before dinner. His name is Denis Thatcher, and he is the target of a long-running spoof...