“Spot on, boss!” said Boris.
“Well, the thing is, Lynton said this was fighting talk,” said Dave. “That you think you’re a cleverer cornflake than me. Now, imagine you’ve given the packet a really good shake… Where’s my cornflake?”
“Terrifyingly high – a cornflake with altitude sickness, you might say, the Sir Edmund Hillary of cornflakes, the Higella of the breakfast cereal universe…”
“Yes, yes, but do you think I’m the top cornflake?” asked Dave. “Not just now, but after 2015? Will I have an overall majority over all the other flakes? Or will the cereal bowl be ruled by another boring old coalition?”
“Rest assured, master,” said Boris, wondering quite how comfortable it was to lie down in a field full of sunflowers.
“Your cornflake is several packets ahead of that oaf, Clegg. He isn’t in the same breakfast cereal cupboard, or even on the same supermarket shelf. The Cleggster’s very much economy brand material, straight out of the essentials range.”
“Look!” said Dave, impatiently. “Just tell me, do you think you’re a better cornflake than me?”
“Cripes, no!” said Boris. “My loyalty to the Prime Minister of the breakfast table is absolute. I’m not a better cornflake. Just a different one.”
“Well, my cornflake got a scholarship at Eton,” muttered Boris.
“Remind me,” said Dave, with a little smile, “what degree did your cornflake get?”
“A 2.1…” mumbled Boris. “But my cornflake read Classics – and yours did an utterly thicko subject. And mine didn’t do any work. Any cornflake can get a First if it’s a girly swot cornflake.”
“And do you think any cornflake can become prime minister if it plots enough, and makes enough Thatcherite speeches about what a brilliant cornflake it is?”
“Not sure I see what you’re driving at, boss?”
“Just give me a straight answer!” bellowed Dave. “Does your cornflake have leadership ambitions or not?”
“Your cornflake might think that,” said Boris, his mind lost in a heady whirl of crushed sunflowers and melting chocolate. “Mine couldn’t possibly comment.”