As progressive Conservatives, "we don't do football" - a policy decision that almost caused a diplomatic incident when Dave sat down with die Merkel to watch last Sunday's match. The local difficulty arose not from Dave's sketchy knowledge of a game that takes a minute to learn yet, seemingly for the English, a lifetime to master, but from the infernal Coulson.

Little Andy, a man of few words, adores Twitter. For a speechmaker who measures his efforts by the character rather than the page, it provides a natural forum, and he has taken to positioning himself at Dave's left hand with his Twitter machine vibrating on his lap.

Having no sense of humour, Coulson fervently believes not only that comedians are funny, but also that he can pass off their attempts at comedy as his own.

So it is that the inner circle has been bombarded by second-hand tweets from people called mrchrisaddison and Wossy and Schofe that lacked wit and originality first time round.

It has been an accident waiting to happen and an international car crash appeared inevitable when Dave, with Coulson whispering in his ear, said rather loudly, "Sounds familiar - the French surrender early, the Americans turn up late, and we're left to deal with the bloody . . ." And, there is a God, Klose scored and die Merkel and I were on our feet hugging each other - she because a World Cup win might provide a much-needed boost in the polls, me because an English triumph would have entwined us for ever with this wretched team in the public's imagination. And bad as Clegg, Cable and Hughes are, they are poppets compared to Terry, Carragher and Cole.

I asked Coulson who had originated the tweet, but he blanked. I detect the hand of the Pub Landlord, who dropped in during the campaign with his agent to discuss (their phrase) "mutual branding opportunities". I hadn't seen the Landlord since Oxford when I was entrusted with informing him that his application to join the Buller had been unanimously blackballed. He bizarrely thought that being the son of a lieutenant colonel and going to school somewhere in Bedford might be sufficient.

The years had not made him, or his agent, any the wiser. They chuntered on about "synergy" and “the youth" until, bored to tears, I asked: "Call yourself a comedian? Let's have a joke, then." And the Pub Landlord, sensitive flower, stormed out, swiftly followed by his agent. It's the way they don't tell them.