I’m not sure what is the most troubling – Dominic Raab avoiding calls like a temp in a 1990s call centre or the fact that he reputedly spunked £40k on a holiday in Crete.

That’s a shedload of kleftiko, or possibly some other form of middle-class entertainment.

Meanwhile, Johnson has announced that the situation around Kabul aiport has stabilised, which is shorthand for ‘the Taliban has levelled the gaffe and offed everybody’.

I can remember a time when a foreign secretary, Lord Carrington, resigned for failing to foresee the seizure of the Falkland Islands. In those days, it was clearly a cardinal sin not to read the minds of an unstable military junta, whereas these chumps thought they could take the mere word of Afghan warlords who would have stopped at nothing to get their county back on their terms.

I guess we can only presume that the Allies believed that the Taliban would abandon the philosophy unwaveringly held since the 6th century and would merrily launch themselves into a world fuelled by disco-dancing drag queens posting Tik Toks and manhandling monster, Marley-sized reefers.

In the end, the ball was dropped, and rather than making callsthe most Raabish foreign minister since von Ribbentrop, or arguably the albino gonk himself, dumb Dom released a photograph of himself on a call. That’s presumably so we can visualise what he would look like doing the job.

Normally that wouldn’t matter, but it does now, such is the incredulous public’s perception of him.

Incidentally, an anagram of ‘Dominic Raab’ is ‘bacon mid-air’. In turn, that conjures up ‘pigs might fly’ imagery, which very much expresses the likelihood of these shysters ever behaving like a reputable and principled government or of this space cadet doing the right thing and falling on his kebab spike.

But no. He’s desperately clinging to the undercarriage of this ramshackle Aeroflot Government.

For now.

At least until the heat becomes too intense under Fatsack, and then the ex-Crete holidaymaker will get unceremoniously Hancocked.