It's not often the Batphone rings at DRIP these days. In the past you could count on Darling Alistair to place a call late on a Friday; partly to issue a hatful of asinine orders for the weekend but mostly to check whether anybody could be arsed to hang around beyond three o'clock.

But since the demise of the DTI and the mayfly that was BERR, things have been a little quieter. This is largely because our new supremo Mandelson, Lord of the Lies, is generally out greasing the palms and goodness knows whatever else of foreign potentates as he prepares for a life beyond Labour, in about six months or so.

In fact, if the phone rings at all these days it's usually the Lady Veronica asking where her hormone tablets are. So, as I lifted my head from the desk and wiped the drool from my chin, I was mildly gobsmacked to hear the dulcet tones of the First Lady.

No, not Mandy it was the fragrant Michelle Obama, asking for the by-now internationally famous Pumserian touch on a project of hers.

Michelle had heard of the matchless work performed by DRIP in combating child obesity in the United Kingdom (the introduction of semi-skimmed pork scratchings is just one example) and my close work with the assorted mums at the Food Standards Agency (so kinky, those wiffles) and had invited me to the lawn of the White House to crack the whip on some of America's corpulent youth.

It may have been the jetlag but I did make a slight faux pas in remarking that the kids appeared a touch on the lardy side. Well how was I to know these were the winners of a Weight Watchers of Washington group? When the real little porkers finally arrived I suggested Michelle dig out the hula hoop. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Now, if only I can get Gordo to break out the jazz dancen