Call me old-fashioned, but if I had just staged a hostile takeover and appointed myself chief executive of an ailing business-slash-country with debts of some £3trillion, I would not just pop off on my holibobs after a mere two weeks.

And yet this is exactly what our new Prime Minister, Andy Burnham, has done. I mean, I get it, it’s annoying when you’ve had the flights and accommodation booked for ages, and pre-paid your Ryanair in-flight meal deal – but he’s clearly been planning this coup for a while. You would think he might have factored that in.

I’m not for one moment suggesting that prime ministers shouldn’t go on holiday, in the style of Gordon Brown. That way madness lies. Everyone needs a break, and Burnham’s kids need to see their dad. But did he need to absent himself from work so soon?

Couldn’t he have popped out to join them for a long weekend on the grounds that, sometimes, matters of state take precedence?

At any rate, politicians’ holidays are the stuff of spin doctors’ nightmares. Remember all that business with Tony Blair, Silvio Berlusconi and the Sardinian villa, complete with firework display spelling out ‘Viva Tony’? Or what about George Osborne and the Oleg Deripaska yacht? Jack Straw, Peter Mandelson… they all enjoyed some questionable hospitality, to varying degrees. Makes poor old Starmer, with his Taylor Swift freebies, seem a rank amateur.

In these more hair-shirted times, it behoves politicians to adopt a less openly hedonistic approach. Any indication that one might be enjoying oneself is frowned upon. Destinations must be vetted by the fun police. Economy is also an important factor. David Cameron used to fly Easyjet for his holidays. When my ex-husband Michael Gove flew to China as part of the 2013 trade delegation, he was in economy – something that astonished officials in Beijing.

Come to think of it, Michael was the master when it came to low-key holidays. He was always acutely aware of the dangers of accepting flashy freebies. As a result, he applied a particularly Presbyterian approach to family breaks. Think fly-blown B&Bs and long car drives to remote parts of Wales and Scotland, cottages with electric coin meters and rain-lashed beaches, penny arcades and candy floss.

The children loved it, of course. I fantasised about Corsica beneath my cagoule.

The shabbier the seaside town, the more he revelled in it, hoovering up full Englishes, revelling in the cafes with their steamed-up windows and antique shops full of dusty treasures.

One year, we made a pilgrimage to the Lloyd George Museum in Llanystumdwy, North Wales (try saying that after too many glasses of holiday rosé). I’m not sure how much the kids appreciated seeing the desk where the great man drafted the Treaty of Versailles – although the cake at the adjoining tea shop served as a satisfactory bribe.

In Burnham’s case, we don’t know where he is, save that it is ‘international’. France? Portugal?

Samantha Cameron used to love Lanzarote, and of course it has all the right working-class credentials. Will Burnham treat us to a heartwarming TikTok from his sun lounger? Or maybe an artfully shot reel of him walking along a beach, the sea breeze fluttering his eyelashes, a faraway look in his eye as he contemplates new ways to fund social care?

I wouldn’t expend the political capital. Especially since there is no better place on Earth than the British countryside in summertime, even more so the Chilterns, where the Prime Minister’s official weekend residence, Chequers, sits.

This Elizabethan mansion may be a trifle dog-eared, but it has a huge heated pool, exquisite rose gardens, a tennis court, a large lawn that doubles as an impromptu football pitch, plenty of comfortable bedrooms, surprisingly good plumbing – plus it is fully staffed and bristling with cameras and security, so you never have to worry about prying eyes.

And given that Burnham’s ‘team’ are at pains to point out that he is very much WFH (working from holiday), it is equipped with all the necessary tech, plus a plush study from which he can do a bit of prime ministering after lunch.

In short, it’s the perfect place for a summer holiday, somewhere a PM’s extended family can come to stay, where the children can invite their mates and while away sleepy afternoons in secret passages, hidden rooms, shady gardens, scare themselves with stories about the ghost of Lady Mary Grey and play endless games of hide and seek.

Best of all, it has a variety of decent local pubs, just the sort of place a man of the people such as Burnham could repair after a walk for a pint and a packet of pork scratchings. Why on earth would you be anywhere else?

Speaking of politicians on holiday, we could do with a break from the sex-obsessed Samantha Niblett. Whether it’s promoting sex toys in Parliament or abusing other women for not wanting to share a changing room with their be-testicled ‘sisters’ from the comfort of her sun-lounger, the MP is fast becoming a total turn-off. 

Rumour had it that footballing superstar Cristiano Ronaldo and fiancee Georgina Rodriguez were to marry this weekend. 

He proposed to her with a whopping 25 to 30-carat diamond ring, flawless in clarity and worth around £4million. That is similar to the 33-carat diamond that Richard Burton bought for Elizabeth Taylor in 1968 – but it is some way off the 69.42 carats of the so-called Taylor-Burton diamond, which he bought for her in 1969. 

All fabulous and glamorous – and we wish Cristiano and Georgina well. 

But the trouble with diamonds, as Burton and Taylor discovered, is that however big they are, they are no guarantee of a long or happy marriage. Love is not measured in carats but in the thousand tiny kindnesses that make a relationship work. 

It's the most tragic thing I’ve seen in ages: Greta Thunberg in a tricolour balaclava and keffiyeh scarf at a Kneecap concert surrounded by cosplaying wannabe revolutionaries cheering on a band that supports the very same terrorists who raped and murdered hundreds of young people just like them on October 7, 2023. It’s like a ‘Pro Pal’ version of Where’s Wally? 

After five hours at Marseille airport, I thought I had seen it all. Not only does it stink of raw sewage, it is also decorated in a variety of migraine-inducing colours, ranging from pus yellow to vomit orange. The food options are reminiscent of a 1980s Little Chef and there are no words to describe the squalor of the toilets. 

But then I landed at Stansted airport in the wee small hours and was greeted by the smell of skunk weed and rotting rubbish. 

Maybe they should consider twinning. In Hell.

Why does Sadiq Khan want to spend millions of pounds hosting World Pride in 2032? London has always been the epicentre of the LGBT+ community, a place where everyone can be themselves and where all tastes and traits are respected. 

Gay, straight or whatever, we don’t need a virtue-signalling extravaganza we can ill-afford. Spend the money instead on protecting our capital city from vile monsters like Tube rapist Simon Levy – or tackling the dangerous and predatory beggar gangs that infest the West End. Then we could all celebrate.

I miss Dawn French. She used to be such a ray of sunshine, a bringer of joy and belly laughs – emphasis on the belly. Now, like her ex-husband Lenny Henry, she’s a bit grumpy and woke to the point of exhaustion. It’s a cliche, but since they both halved in size, they’ve become devoid of humour. Could it be that they are just hangry?