LOOK, it’s great to speak to you, thanks to one of the crew slipping me their iPhone, but I need to be quick because I’m set to eat monkey anus or whatever in the next few minutes.

No, listen, it’s not that bad. I had to kiss Dominic Cummings’s backside for long enough, so I know what it tastes like, and the truth is I’m loving it out here with my new very best friends.

Yes, isn’t it wonderful how I’m managed to fit in? They don’t seem to mind at all that I’m like the posh boy sent to a comprehensive in the middle of a run-down council estate, who’s never heard of free school dinners or knows the words to Sweet Caroline.

Wasn’t it wonderful how Boy George really warmed to me, opening up about his mum nearly dying and all from Covid?

And I think they appreciate the sterling work I’m doing here in spreading the word about . . . what was it again, oh yes, dyslexia, even though my mouth is constantly full of pig d**k.

Okay, yes, privately, the likes of Charlene may be saying, in a jokey way, “Hancock, you’re an oleaginous little wormhole of a man, with the moral rectitude of a kangaroo’s rectum”.

And Moyles could be talking about the £40m PPE contracts going to my old mate, the pub landlord, or that I should be giving evidence to Parliament’s health and social care committee. But how boring would that be?

No, my purpose here is for people to see me for what I am. Not some Rishi-rejected political has-been but an immensely warm, relatable and generous bloke who will give some of his £40k fee to charity.

No. Sorry. I’m not at liberty to say how much, because that could have the effect of people falling on their backs with laughter. As a former Health Secretary I’m not going to be responsible for adding further burdens to the NHS.

But what I will tell you is I’m leading by example here, in following in the thick-booted footsteps of Jungle trailblazers such as Nadine and Kezia. No, they weren’t laughing aloud in the face of public derision, as they pumped telly coin into their bank accounts.

Like me, they wished to show how politicians can be deeply misunderstood, if, for example, your sister’s bib company lands a lovely contract with the Welsh health board.

Viewers, of course, will see me as a great distraction from the recession. What they understand implicitly is that yes, we may be short of nurses, and answers to the Covid deaths crises, but what we really need is more brave, bold, celebrities.

Sure, I could Profumo my way into favour and work for a homeless charity for fallen women or whatever. But where’s the money – sorry, the opportunity for the public to adore me – in that?

Ooops, must fly. That old, reconstructed jailbird, Boy George, has promised to teach me the words to Karma Chameleon.

* As imagined by Brian Beacom