The secret diary of David Cameron's dead pig

Oink, oink! Call me Babe. I have arrived.

Whoa! After Jesus and Vincent, it's I, Babe, aka Cameron's Pig, (for that's what I have come to be known as) who has had such a fortunate posthumous stint.

Ever since Lord Michael Witchcraft (OK, you got me, Ashcroft - you old filthbag!) outed it all and gave me the unique distinction of being Prime Minister David Cameron's willy's thrilly during his Piers Gaveston/Oxford University daze, I have been on cloud nine. (Thereby proving that pigs, at least the dead ones, can, in fact, fly.) I have debuted on Twitter.

 With a stellar response from all you hamstrung social media types. Sample these:

I have reincarnated as memes and gifs flooding your Facebook and Reddit. I have displaced Jeremy Corbyn as the talk of the town, catapulting my dearest Dave to the political acme that he truthfully belongs to. They have even given Jon "Hamm" the Emmy at last! No coincidence that, aye!

Thanks to Dave, who has since "denied any sexual relations with me", and Lord Witchcraft, who is more terrifying and better equipped at bloodsucking than the dengue mosquito, I am a veritable celebrity. Proof: I am being photoshopped and merged (in various stages of undress and ingress) with pictures of the #hameron! 10 Downing Street may not "deign to comment" and BBC may have a huge steak in admitting my cause célèbre, but I am ruling the comments pages of The Guardian. Now the Tories can legitimately call the broadsheet a pigsty. The joke will be on them!

Samantha, please don't lose sleep over me. It was a long time ago. Dave was only a wayward boy then.

But I must make my hay when sun of #PigGate shines, thanks to the Daily Mail, of course.

So let me ham-mer in the point I have been meaning to make for a while. It was consensual.

Really. Dave didn't rape me succumbing to Piers pressure. Neither was it a weird Oxford initiation rite that flouted the grievous and belatedly Victorian sexual offences law. Despite Lord Witchcraft claiming there's "photographic evidence" of the act (there is, I assure you - I couldn't take a chance with my scintillating future and not have it documented!), I must tell you that Dave is innocent under British law.

For he neither had intercourse with a living animal (it was my dead mouth, not my posterior), nor was it sexual penetration of a person's corpse (you, my dears, have not granted me personhood yet, although I suggest you reconsider it). You see the Sexual Offences Act 2003 that you have been dangling like a carrot and pretending to co-opt my dead head into your own Black Mirror evangelism of the Charlie Brooker variety - simply won't work.

I am squarely on Dave's side here. His Bullingdon bullydom might have been a secret drinking and fornicating society (which self-respecting Tory doesn't have that formidable claim to fame in their curriculum vitae?) and they might have doped and orgy-ied their way to (still unattained) political maturity, but that's no reason why you should suddenly make him fall from grace.

Oh c'mon! "Carnal knowledge of a dead pig"? Seriously? Every jilted female worth her love handles would have exactly that same description of every one of her recently deceased or long dead boyfriends, particularly if the said boyfriend had been the piggybank moneybag type. Please Barbies, cue later.

And stop calling my dearest Dave "obscene" over this little tittle-tattle of the private anatomies. (A pig's head and a man's member are more or less interchangeable items.)

Please behave. If you want to barbeque Dave and make mincemeat out of him, do so for his moronic comments dragging SOAS, King's College and other fine institutions into the ambit of terror. (Okay you got me again. SOAS, KCL pose less of a life threat for me since I happen to be a gastronomic infidel for many of their students.)

And why don't you bake Dave's pea-sized brain over the damning bedroom tax, his bludgeon-worthy stance on refugees, his inexcusable letdown on UK higher education, his cringe-inducing position on student debt, etc, etc?

Don't pig-shit me for this ain't "Hell knows no fury like a woman scorned" - they have not yet sprung a sex determination test on my dead bod yet! I am only trying to be helpful here. (Please ignore my obvious hankering for a ticket to Celebrity Big Brother, or even its Indian version, Bigg Boss.)  

And while the bidding war over my forthcoming bestselling memoir pans out, and while the offers from Labour and LibDem keep pouring in, let me retire to my heavenly boudoir now. And dream in peace. After all, how many pigs get to legitimately displace Jeremy Corbyn as Britain's latest obsession?!