In a darkened cupboard in Downing Street eerie wails are sending shudders through all that hear them. Usually staunch civil servants glance fearfully at the door and hurry past, heads bowed.

Enter the Chancellor.

Osborne: “Dave? Is that you in there?”

Muffled voice from the cupboard: “Andy, oh Andy! Why hast thou forsaken me, again!”

Osborne: “Is Murray out of Wimbledon already? Well not to worry, all factored into the plan. If he’d won we’d have used him as an example of the power of the union but if he loses he’s just a useless Jock and we use him to taunt the SNP. Remember?”

Anguished howl: “Not THAT Andy you idiot I’m talking about Coulson.”

“Oh, him! Well much as I hate to say it Dave I did warn you about him.”

“Ooh! You liar! He was YOUR idea.”

“Well, you know, warned, recruited, same thing.”

“You really are an odious little shit aren’t you Gideon?”

(Smirking) “Thanks for noticing! Now are you coming out of the cupboard or not?”

“No!”

“Ok, well, can you at least pass me the Duchy Originals? I hide them in there from Pickles.”

(Sounds of furtive munching) “Mmwha Duchy ’riginals?”

“Dave..? You’re lying about the biscuits aren’t you?”

“…Yes, but there’s only one left and I’ve licked it.”

(Rolls eyes to heaven) “God, this is WHY I told you to get Coulson in the first place.”

“Yes and just look how well that worked out! Sob!! Get him on the inside pissing out, you said.”

“Yes well, I didn’t know he was going to leak like a rotary sprinkler. There’s urine everywhere! We’re up to our necks in it. No-one’s seen Gove for days, we think he might have drowned. Every cloud has a silver lining eh?”

“Where’s Lynton? I need Lynton!”

“Lynton says you’re about as popular as a cane toad at Sydney airport at the moment and then he went off muttering something about dingos and babies.”

“Oh God! We’re doomed.”

“Don’t worry Dave, I have a plan.”

“What! A radical new policy that will distract attention from the scandal? Maybe a reshuffle?”

“No, move over, I’m getting in the cupboard with you.”

 Yes, it cannot have failed to come to your attention, unless you read the Sun, that former News International editor and Tory spin doctor Andy Coulson was convicted this week of being part of a conspiracy to hack phones following the conclusion of a long-running trial at the Old Bailey.

A certain amount of schadenfreudian satisfaction has been derived in certain quarters over the verdict, much along the lines of “live by the dark arts…”

In fact, I would go as far as to say that it is probably the most popular conviction since transubstantiation.

At least until they get round to lifting Tony Blair.

His co-accused Rebekah Brooks was acquitted of the same charge, which raised an eyebrow or two although the trial did give a fascinating (and amusing) insight into life a la Chez Brooks and in the Murdoch empire in general.

We found out that she and Coulson had a long-running affair. That Blair offered to advise her, and that her husband Charlie hid his stash of porn and a laptop in the bin of an underground car park.

When Woodward and Bernstein were cracking Watergate and meeting “Deep Throat” in similarly insalubrious surroundings, I don’t think that’s what they meant.

But then of course they were trying to expose the truth, not hide it.

We also learned that the racehorse owner was found one morning literally foaming at the mouth after quaffing a pint of Fairy Liquid in a bid to purge himself after a binge, which I’m pretty sure wasn’t what the marketing team had in mind for their product but hey whatever works for you Chas.

And these are the people Cameron chums around with…

The stage was set for what should have been an incendiary Prime Minister’s Questions with Ed Miliband staring at an open goal and Cameron as the keeper with his hands tied behind his back.

However, as has so often proven the case in recent years, the Labour leader proved about as adept at putting the ball in the back of the net as the England football team.

It’s no wonder Cameron’s so smug. Even when he’s on the ropes he can pretty much guarantee Miliband will fail to land the knockout blow.

It must be like sparring with a Jehovah’s Witness. 

And, speaking of ignominious failures, here we are again at that traditional time of year… The English national team have been routed in their given sport de jour and once again millions of heartbroken English people are pinning their hopes on a Scot in a desperate bid to salvage some national pride.

I refer of course to the monosyllabic Andy Murray who as has been observed previously undergoes a curious transformation for the two weeks of Wimbledon in the English national perception. For 50 weeks of the year he’s a dour Scot but all of a sudden he’s as English as St George, er…

If Alex Salmond wanted to win over Middle England on the devolution debate all he’d have to do was give them a time-share option on Murray for a fortnight every June and they’d be rebuilding Hadrian’s Wall before you could say “£25 for a punnet of strawberries!”