Rock bottom....

CANCER: Tomorrow, you'll be delighted to receive a phone call from Theresa May's office, asking if you'd like to be the new Brexit Secretary. She's asked everyone else she can think of, and you're next in the phone directory. (You know bugger all about Brexit, but that's absolutely fine - neither does anyone else!)

It's what you've always dreamed of.....money, power, permission to call Mr Speaker an eejit, the opportunity to play with Jeremy Vine's Swingometer....the possibilities are endless.

You immediately hire your own secretary, swap your Fiat Panda for a Porsche, swap your partner for somebody else's partner, start referring to yourself as 'The Honourable Blipper', and generally become an opinionated, arrogant arse, just like everyone else in Westminster.

It's only when a ton of Langues de Chat are delivered to your front door, that you realise your mistake....you're the new Biscuit Secretary!

Ah well, never mind, those biccies will be worth a fortune once we're no longer allowed to import anything from Europe......