Dear Keir: ‘You too can be a mellifluous speaker’

I’ve been X-ing up a storm, boasting about deportation numbers and vowing to smash the gangs. I’m ­cultivating a sort of “tough guy” persona: think Jason Statham or Ross Kemp, but with more hair.

Not everyone is keen on the new direction. My YouGov net favourability rating has plunged to -46. Still, I’m confident I can win back doubters. You see, like my friend Donald, I’ve mastered the art of the deal. On Monday I announced an EU trade agreement that will boost the UK economy by a whopping 0.3% by 2040. It’s been said that I’m responsible for more growth than Viagra (though, of course, I’d never say something so vulgar).

Point is, I’m delivering on delivery, rolling up my sleeves and putting pounds in pockets. The only time I don’t think about the economy is when I write this column. Speaking of which…

Dear Keir*, people accuse me of having a boring conversational style. I’ve been told listening to me makes one wish to dive into liquid nitrogen. As prime minister, how do you keep the public hanging on your every word? Karan, Derby

Well, Karan, I wasn’t always this captivating. I owe a lot to my elocution lessons with actress Leonie Mellinger. She was in The New Statesman, a sitcom that featured Rik Mayall as an amoral politician who constantly lies to advance his career. I never watched the show (seemed a bit farfetched) but Leonie was a godsend. She took me from a nasal honk to my current mellifluous tone. I may not play Glastonbury like Corbyn, but I can blow the roof off the CBI’s annual conference.

I would also recommend spouting clichés at every opportunity. Speechwriter William Safire says we should avoid them like the plague. Humorous, but I disagree. Clichés make you sound like a nice, down-to-earth bloke, so I use them til the cows come home. Like they’re going out of fashion. That’s just the way it is, and I make no apologies for that.

Perhaps clichés aren’t your cup of tea. To each his own. At the end of the day, it’s swings and round-abouts, and I couldn’t care less.

Dear Keir, I had this messed-up dream the other night. It was in assembly at my old school, except I was totally naked. Also, my school was on the moon (I couldn’t see outside – I just knew it was, if that makes sense?) Anyway, I looked down at my penis and it fell off. Then it turned into a dormouse and ­scurried away. What do you reckon that means? Duncan, Sunderland

Hi Duncan, thanks for sharing. Unfortunately, this is one of the few subjects on which I plead ignorance. As I told the Guardian’s Charlotte Edwardes, dreaming’s not my thing. I just hit the pillow and, bang, I’m out for six hours, like a charging Roomba. I’m sort of an inverse Martin Luther King: I don’t have a dream.

Tell a lie: there’s one I have every other week. I’m back in the leader of the opposition’s office. I hear a knock at the door. It’s Tony Blair, long-haired and looking like a cross between Peter Stringfellow and Skeletor. There’s a puppy in the crook of his right arm. Adorable. In his left hand he carries a hammer (as the son of a toolmaker, I recognise it instantly).

“Tony!” I say. “How can I help you?” He says to take the hammer and smash the puppy’s skull. I ask why. He says that tough choices must be made.

“But I don’t want to,” I say. “Killing puppies is wrong.”

Tony says it’s the only way to prove I’m serious about change. Or should he take the puppy to Wes Streeting? So I do it. Horrible. Once it’s over, I expect Tony to put a hand on my shoulder and tell me how sensible I’ve been. But he just grins and says “more”. He brings in another puppy, then another, then another. I do them all.

Blood soaking my expensive suit. And the worst part is, I start to enjoy it.

I usually wake up around then, drenched in sweat and filled with dread. Lady Vic suggests the dream has some deeper meaning, but I can’t think of one.

As regards the mouse penis, I recommend ignoring all messages from your subconscious. Until next time, stay cautious, stay judicious, stay Keir!

Keir xxx

*As told to Lucien Young