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Hello and Hi. George Osborne here. For those of you who’ve been living in a cave since May 2010, I’m Lord Chancellor (of the exchequer). By the way if you have been living in a cave I’m pretty certain you’re breaking the law and it’s only a matter of time til enforcement officers move you on.

I’m proud to tell you that I’m currently the thirteenth most recognizable member of the Coalition Government (I’d be twelfth if John Culshaw’s Baroness Warsi impersonation hadn’t briefly trended on YouTube) and I live at number eleven Downing Street.

So what’s living next door to David Cameron like I hear you ask? An absolute hoot! That’s what. As you know there’s always a police-chap (or chappess) outside his house which is good for the whole street if you ask me. It also means that I’ve always got someone there to test out ‘edgy’ comic material I might want to work into a speech say. Sure they might not laugh, but they can’t walk away either.

David’s house is a lot more famous than mine but I’m totally cool with that and so is he. His downstairs is better though. His kitchen has an island (set in Cheadle pine), which is where he keeps his Inbetweeners DVDs. But am I jealous? Nuh Uh. The trappings of a prime minister don’t interest me in the slightest. Besides I’m more of a ‘Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps’ man.

So yeah. There you go… a Little window into my world. Tune in each Tuesday and Thursday (that’s any day not beginning with ‘M’ ‘W’ ‘F’ or ‘S’ to make it easier to remember). I’ll be here to tell you about my life as your Chancellor… My highs and lows, my twists my turns, my loop the loops and my night terrors.

Best,

George (Osborne)

Latest Tweets:

    Hello. Geroge Osborne here again.

    I’ll be honest, it’s taken me ages to type my first name just now, the trouble is it’s a really easy name to type out wrong. I’ve been staring at it for hours and even now I’m not entirely sure it’s right. Sometimes I wish I’d stuck with Gideiyon.

    Kicking myself for allowing laymen to remove ALL the windows in my home before realizing they didn’t have any new ones to put in. The house has been literally shitting heat since. I hope they come back before it gets dark.

    As if that wasn’t enough I’ve had a run in with Ed Balls. After our usual pithy exchange in the commons he cornered me in the toilet post wee, while I was reading a Zumba flyer. He told me I had no idea how real people live, to which I quickly came back with ‘No YOU’VE no idea how real people live’.

    Things got heated (unlike the rooms in my house) and to cut a long story short he bet me I couldn’t survive one day on a pound and with only a blanket to keep me warm. A bet I heartily agreed to.

    Here’s how I’ve got on:
    8.00am: Awoken by cold but didn’t waste money putting heat on. Blanket an absolute godsend.

    8.15am. Washed and combed self. Being poor is no excuse for letting yourself go. Look at Top Cat!

    9.15am Driven to offices in Beamer. It’s on account which doesn’t infringe on the bet… unable to tip driver though. Uh-Oh!

    10.00am Watched William Hague murder a quesadilla in commons refectory. Must eat something. Blanket an absolute godsend.

    10.55am AAAAAARGH Todays Groupon Deal is a gold pass at Thorpe Park for just £17.50! Absolute DOUBLE BASTARD!

    1.30pm Hallucinated that Ken Clarke was a Quiche.

    2.15pm Staggered into commons refectory and threw my pound in vending machine. Machine dispensed metal coil but bizarrely not Peanut M&Ms. Cried.

    2.22pm Caught by Dave Cameron leaning into a plate of gourmet sausages I paid for on Gold Card. OOOF! He knows about the bet! He’s promised not so say anything because he knows I saw him eat a swan once and doesn’t want me to tell his great pal Wills.

    2.37pm Made to sign a document to the effect that I can no longer hold the swan thing over Dave. Am now completely out of political ammo.

    3.00pm Still at work. Feel so low. If only I could think of some way of doing something intimately pleasing without anyone noticing.

    3.05pm Blanket an absolute godsend.

    Best,
    Geroge (Osborne).

    Go Cam!

    Hello and hi again (again)

    Bit of a serious blog this Tues. So to liven it up I’ve popped a swear word into the body of this text. Hope you enjoy looking for it like a profane version of where’s Wally.

    It’s not a mild swear word either like ‘Struth’ or ‘Wazzock’, no it’s one of the main ones.

    Today I have to man up (like Tom Hanks in ‘Big’) and deliver a budget speech to the nation. It’s a funny one the budget. As everybody knows the best way to lose weight is to do it fast, especially if there’s an important event you have to attend, like a wedding say or an election. The last thing you want is to be rocking up looking like Chunk out of Goonies (the forefather of child obesity).

    As any idiot knows, the best way to rapidly lose weight is to knock out carbs, completely, starve your body of sugar and fibre, rendering yourself egg-bound and unable to complete the simplest of tasks.

    This is exactly what I’ll be proposing to do to the UK in today’s budget speech. It’s a no brainer really when you think about it.

    Shithouse.

    George (Osborne)

    Secrets

    Hello yes

    To be honest it’s not been a good week. On Wednesday I was laughed out of the room for mistakenly bringing the remote for my plasma to a cabinet meeting instead of a calculator. I tried to make light of it by saying ‘Crikey whatever did I give the wife!’ but the joke failed to work on a number of levels.

    To make matters worse I traipsed past a greetings card shop that had celebrity masks in the window, there was one of David and Boris (obviously), plus a flammable one of Nick Clegg…but I couldn’t see any of me.

    So I decided to create my own mask from composite parts of the existing ones, using a faded Simon Cowell as an effective base. I added Mr Bean’s hair, the lips of Kate Adie, using the top of Michael Stipes’ head as an effective jowl.

    Pleased with the result I then wore the mask in the commons refectory at lunchtime, absolutely certain that this would garner a laugh. Alarmingly nobody seemed to notice the difference. To make matters Worse Harriet Harman even remarked that I looked well and asked if I’d been away.

    I couldn’t see well through the eye holes, so I can only hope that none of the MPs actually bothered to look up at me from their food (Madras Wednesdays have become a real commons crowd pleaser).
    Anyway must go. Got a few dinner do’s coming up so my assistant Vickie has made me an emergency appointment at the tailors. My cummerbund is so tight it feels like a gastric band.

    Best

    George (Osborne)

    Hillo! That was one of the fusion greetings! All the hip of ‘Hi’ melded with reliability of a good solid ‘Hello.’

    As you know at this time of year David has a big Christmas tree outside his house (which is good for the whole street if you ask me). He’s got one in his lounge as well but it’s not real like the one outside. That’s how Dave rolls tree-wise. Outside real, inside fake.

    Anyhow, my banking buddies sent me an advent calendar that’s as big as a giant’s door! I had to use a spatula to get the first window open which contained a Kindle! BOOM! I was less excited when day two’s prize turned to be a Kindle also, but it didn’t stop me pouncing on window three with alacrity…only to receive a third Kindle.

    Well here I am five days later….eight Kindles to the good. I’m still stoked though. In my view you can never have too many Kindles.

    Got to pop off now. I’ve drawn Michael Gove in the secret Santa who’s impossible to buy for. I mean just what do you buy for a keen reader with weak arms? To complicate matters further David has ruled that our gifts must be to the value of £89, no more no less. So it’s a real chin scratcher as you can imagine.

    Laters

    George (Osborne)

    Jordan

    Hello. Right.

    Just had a power nap to stave off bloats caused by a Thai green curry and have woken up feeling ‘antsy’. In hindsight it was a terrible breakfast choice, especially considering I paired it with a side of wobbly scrambled eggs… and chasing it with a Solero was total lunacy.

    It’s comfort eating. I can’t handle the pressure. It’s this vote on curbing food speculation. I’ll be honest the whole thing just makes me want to bury my head in a large bowl of trifle. I’ve also been bingeing on sponge fingers. Not even some vigorous ‘Hammertime’ at the dance studio seems to help.

    It’s actually beginning to become a serious problem. I’ve been making absolutely terrible food decisions in restaurants. Last night at the MPs Bistro, I ordered salt gammon with capers on a bed of crackers. My mouth was like a desert, even with the espresso.

    Tonight I’m meeting some bankers to discuss food speculation question. Yikes! I like being lobbied, but until I get my ordering back on track, it’s a minefield. We’re going to a posh meat place that also does shakes and I can’t risk ending up with a lamb smoothie. I’ll be a laughing stock.

    I’m not sure all this filming and blogging and tweeting is helpful. I feel like I’m George multiplied and God knows one of me is enough! So I’m going to hang up my blogging boots for now to give the matter of food speculation some serious thought.

    Please continue to send me your views on food speculation using the email form on this page, if I get enough it may help me decide to do the right thing. But please stop sending me ‘protest’ pies in the post. My FT is covered in gravy.

    I can’t help myself.

    Your big hungry chancellor George (Osborne)