Hammond House of Horror proudly presents The Return of the Revenge of Dr Francophobe’s Monster.

Starring: Dr Francophobe: Chris Grayling; Igor: Michael Gove; The monster: Theresa May; Pitchfork-wielding Rabble: the Parliamentary Labour Party.

The scene: The crenelated tower of Castle Francophobe, situated somewhere in the wilds of Middle England…

Two Gurneys, one containing the recently disinterred corpse of a former luminary clutching a very familiar handbag, the second the cadaverous equivalent of a blank canvas, although incongruously sporting leopard-print heels.

Feverish activity can be heard behind the scenes. Imprecations are hurled, grovelling subservience the response.

Dr Francophobe: “Igor, we need more power!”

“Yesshh master, but if you wanted more power why did you not stand in the leadership elections yourself?”

“Do not be stupid Igor. With my almost total lack of charisma and my quasi-vampiric aversion to daylight and appearing on celluloid, not to mention the fulfilment of my life’s work, I must remain behind the scenes.”

“Speaking of such matters master, what happened to QuasiBoJo? I thought I’d fixed his wagon good and proper.”

“Ah, Igor. It will take a lot more than that to kill him off, he has more lives than a cat and is just as self-serving.”

The air is rent by the howls of unearthly creatures.

“Ah, Igor. Can you hear the music of the children of the night? They call to me.”

“Indeed master, although it could just be a Daily Mail editorial meeting. They have so much to consider. How to sneer at a woman even though she is the Tory leader, for a start … And that’s before we get to Mrs Igor, who still seems to have an axe to grind.”

“Well, she’s not the only one, eh Igor? And mine was fashioned from the same guillotine I was presented with when I became justice secretary and used to destroy worker’s rights.”

“Happier days, my lord.”

“They were indeed Igor (attempts to shed a tear and gives up). They were indeed. Halcyon in their retrospectively rose-tinted allure…”

Igor walks over to a charred bundle of bones in the corner and gives it a judicious kick.

“What will we do with this one, master?”

“Ah, yes, Leadsom. That one didn’t take. Still you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs eh?”

The storm clouds gather. Lightning flashes and thunder peals across the Tory heartlands.

“Master, we must make haste while the atmospheric turmoil continues.”

“Quite right loyal servant... To the tower, man the winch!”

A bolt of lightning strikes the gurney containing the monster. A shower of sparks erupts then the cobbled-together corpse gives a slight twitch.

“It’s alive! Alive! My ultimate creation. The compassion of Thatcher, the humility of Edwina Curry and the decency of Shirley Porter all rolled into one. The Uber Tory!”

A hand shoots out and snaps Igor’s neck. A concealed knife clatters to the floor.

“Igor? Did you mean to betray me?”

(With his dying breath) “Seemed like a good idea at the time master… urggghhh.”

The monster lurches from the gurney and slowly turns towards its creator, murder in its eyes.

“But why? I made you!”

The monster shrugs and advances.

“I’m a Tory, that’s what I do…”

The air is filled with rending of flesh followed by blood-curdling screams.

An angry mob streams down from the nearby hamlet — dubbed by the locals the Eagle’s Nest — towards the castle, torches and agricultural implements at the ready. They then pour straight past and burn down the house of the elected mayor before savagely turning on each other in a frenzy of bloodletting.

The monster shrugs once more and heads off into the sunrise.

End credits.

Truth, as the old adage goes ,is often stranger than fiction. What is seldom quoted is the second part of the aphorism: “and if it’s politicians we’re talking about, it’s just mental.”

As if any evidence were required to support this theory we now have a war-mongering extremist in charge of the Treasury who seems to think that everything will be alright if we just flog more weapons to murdering despots. A multiply disgraced nepotisitically inclined fascist, Liam Fox, back in the Cabinet.

And, as if that weren’t bad enough, we’ve been landed with a Foreign Secretary who still believes the empire exists — the Ottoman Empire.

And what are our heroic opposition politicians doing? Cheerfully engaging in fratricidal mutually assured destruction.

This week also saw Angela Eagle “officially” launch her leadership bid.

I say “officially” to distinguish it from the many abortive previous attempts which made Cameron’s Big Society plan look like it had been executed with military precision.

It is beyond ironic that a woman named after a bird of prey could have so much trouble getting her campaign off the ground.

The launch, if it can be called that, was a car crash in slow motion.

First the signage which, as has been gleefully pointed out, looked more like an advert for a bespoke fragrance than a concerted attempt at power.

“Angela, pour femme, delusion with a whiff of hypocrisy.”

Did someone really convince her that was a good idea? As self-penned political epitaphs go it was only one small step away from Miliband’s giant headstone election wheeze.

Then there was the toe-curling moment when she asked for questions only to realise that the assembled media had all buggered off because May’s appointment as Tory leader had been announced.

The words piss-up and brewery spring to mind.

We get the politicians we deserve, so they say.

Well, given the events of the last few weeks we must have been a very bad bunch of budgies indeed.