The art of Dolly Parton’s bra

I hope this is my last week in the Bagel. I plan to fly first to Switzerland and then on to London. There’s the annual Pugs Club lunch I cannot afford to miss, but now that Boris is married I don’t suppose he gives a damn about the poor little Greek boy and his club lunches. Incidentally, the little bird has answered my last week’s query about The Spectator bash: the sainted editor is waiting to hear what, yes you guessed it, the new bridegroom premier will allow this summer. Boris doesn’t seem to be able to make up his mind whether the magazine he headed for close to eight years should go two years without a party.

Oh boy, it’s getting very confusing, and I for one have lost the trust I once had in science. My unsolicited advice to Boris is that he should listen more to his instincts and less to scientific types. I’ve never met the third wife and know nothing about her, but instinct tells me she’s got Boris wrapped tight around her little finger (though not half as tightly wrapped as Meghan has the halfwit).

Never mind. There are other things to worry about than hen-pecked hubbies. For example, some fool writing in the Bagel Times pejoratively refers to the great Irwin Shaw short story ‘The Girls in Their Summer Dresses’. Actually, only a depraved maggot could write that the marvellous short story is ‘sexist and dated’. (Probably under orders from the top, or trying to please his superiors.) More to the point, this garbage related to ‘gender fluidity’ entering its next phase, which means men wearing dresses instead of men wearing trousers. So it’s skirts and frocks for the boys from now on, at least if you want to be with it in New York.