Let no-one say this job is unglamorous. Just the other evening I was hosting a reception at the club to celebrate the number one hard-boiled sugar brand when in marched the Rt Hon David Cameron, leader of Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition.

He'd obviously crashed the wrong gig and my first instinct was to direct him to the glitzy affair being hosted by Hebdomadal Shopper magazine in the broom cupboard next door. But there was something rather pathetic about the greasy Old Etonian tie, the chinless chin, the vacant countenance. Yes, he reminded me of the dear Lady Veronica.

But I digress. I rather took pity on the man, clearly envious as he was of my position of power. So I generously topped up his Tia Maria and Coke and set about trying to pry information out of him. Give him his due. Rather than spill the beans to a member of the ruling elite, Cameron spun me a yarn so puerile that I couldn't even be bothered to report it back to Gordo. The Boy David reckoned he had hit on a wheeze that would link supermarket directors' bonuses to how much money they raised for charity.

It's flashes of sheer genius like this that give rise to hope that Cameron will one day learn to wipe his own bottom. What could be more obvious? "Monsieur Bolland," the chairman says, "you've tripled profits this year but I'm afraid you've only raised £28.60 for the Bootle Donkey Sanctuary. So your bonus this year is restricted to a Sherbet Fizz."

Now, with Gordo introducing the death penalty for malicious plastic bag use and Corporal Clegg declaring supermarket profits illegal, there's just a smidgeon of vacuous populism in the air. But this took the biscuit. At least it would have if Ravey Davey hadn't moved to ban impulse choccies from the till lanes. I can't remember the last time I saw any there, but let's not allow common sense to get in the way of politics.