We need to talk about Boris. And let me make clear immediately that we mean no ill to the Conservative Party. We do, however, wish it to be dead.
Were Jehovah the Merciless to grant us such a boon, I - never normally your man for public revels - would dance upon the grave. I might even say: "Whoop".
You say: "What?" And I repeat "Whoop." Wherefore this whooping? Well, Boris Johnson doesn't want to rule just London. He wants to rule England and the Other Bits. That includes you.
So, let me add: yay, Boris! For having this gold-plated loonjob made Tory leader could cripple the ghastly cabal for good.
Alas, serious strategists sense the danger and, after his speech to Tory conference the other day, they want to know if he's serious or what. What? Boris serious? You're having a laugh.
Right enough, something has turned his untidy head. He's believing his own publicity. And, granted, he didn't get where he is today by an absence of cunning.
But what sort of cunning stunt was his speech?
I'm a connoisseur of Moon-addled orations, my favourite being that delivered by Viscount Amberley in yonder House of Lords, July 18, 1978.
Earl Russell, to give him his Sunday name, declared uncontroversially: "[This] House is indisputably Marxist and inherits the banner of the Red Army of the Soviet Union."
He said men should live in communal huts and noted in passing: "The official rating of the human race in the northern hemisphere is: toad."
All of which is unarguable. The speech was made rather late in the evening. I do not know if strong drink was taken.
Last time I tried procuring a written copy, it was selling on the internet for 85 and 125 quid.
Perhaps Boris's speech will become a similarly eccentric treasure.
He was greeted by crowds chanting: "Boris! Boris! Boris!" That's his first clue that he's going to be lynched at a later date.
Immediately addressing Prime Minster Derek - Derek? Denzil? - Cameron's incisive analysis that he was "a blond-haired mop", Boris declaimed: "If I am a mop, David Cameron, you are a broom."
The implication was that he - Cameron, D - was clearing up the mess left by Labour.
Fine, but Boris went on: "I congratulate you and your colleagues, George Osborne the dustpan, Michael Gove the J-cloth, William Hague the sponge." Dustpan? J-cloth? Sponge? See what I mean? Loopy.
At the Olympics, he said, a "giant hormonal valve was opened in the minds of the people", who were "suffused with a Ready Brek glow of happiness". He was, he said, "gobsmacked". Yes, he should be.
Gently, he mocked David's failure on American television to translate the Latin expression Magna Carta - the Big Cart - before averring that he and the PM had "danced Gangham Style the other day" and that French cake, Korean TV aerials, Danish bikes and Brazilian mosquito repellent were all made in London.
I see. He added: "Every single chocolate hobnob in the world is made in London."
Don't get me wrong. I love humour in politics. But I fear for Boris. They're raising him up just to knock him down.
Who's raising him up?
Why, those spiritless, toad-rated chaps of the northern hemisphere.
In other words, the Conservative Party.