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A guru’s diary

Will the real Steve Hilton please stand up? The Downing Street honcho offers a sneak peak at his wee

Warlord rule

Yo. Let me give you the word on what's going down. Been running the country remotely from the MacBook Pro. The warlord fronts the operation with a zeal and precision not witnessed since the Second World War, with the possible exception of Thatcher. We're on fire.

My own brand is in the ascendant, too. Job offers, often in seven figures, come from across the globe. Mitt Romney wanted me to prep him for the TV debates on the strength of locking it down for Dave's performance at the last general. Kennedy School are keen. The Saatchi door is propped open. It would be stating the obvious to say that Google has a post for me.

My cultivated shoeless mystique has all of Westminster grooving to my tune. My vision is run from No 10 itself. Ro and my other discipular sprites convert my genius mindflow into action lists.

For discipline, I deploy the occasional vile putdown to remind the civil servants and ministers who's calling the shots. My desk is not far from Dave's. A clear symbol of rank and proximity to the kinetic nucleus. One of Jeremy Heywood's more useful contributions.

Hands down

Brand Alert: "Fake Hand Dave" is a name I'm hearing too often. It needs crushing urgently.

It refers to a couple of weird hand gestures, which citizens will be aware of. First, open hands with spread upturned fingers - same as a baker would use to roll dough - and provides an obvious tell when he's faking engagement. It's got to go from PMQs, too. And also the "invisible teacup", where his right hand holds an invisible teacup over his upward-facing left palm. Bad, bad visuals. Focus groups know something isn't quite right. I've been watching Primary Colors and the Clinton tapes again. Got to get Dave to gel more naturally with the blue-collars. Voice coach Gordon Lennox has been scrambled, although I don't want to repeat the hissy fit Dave threw all those years ago in initial media training.

Dave diet

Muffin-top: predictably some of the papers have zoomed in on Dave's waistline. I have suggested a Californian macrobiotic regime. Dave reacts with that pissy smelt-a-drain look that he gives Ed Balls. If sorted, Nick would then be the tubby one - which reminds me, also need to get our leader running with Matt Roberts again. Nothing says alpha more than a warlord pounding tough terrain. Andrew Parsons obviously teed up for the shot, which we'll push out through the usual channels.

All hell broke loose in Afghan just before Christmas. Total Ministry of Defence (Hayden Allan got it in the neck) incompetence when we missed the Camp Bastion vanity run with soldiers for the cameras. Instead, we had John- Major-gardening-outfit and awkward body language in the mess. Threw me into a total rage. Waste of 36 hours.

Punch drunk

Alcohol wars: we're looking to use the Tory council bully model of parking control - where totally disproportionate fines extort millions from motorists for the slightest offences. Since nobody feels sorry for a drunk, injured moron, we're looking at summary justice with instant revenue-generation from fines and clinical services. Harrison and other Treasury clowns who think I'm just a spender will never have seen a windfall like it since the sell-off of the mobile frequencies.

Cooper running some numbers on it but I can tell you now that: NHS wins. Law and Order score. HMT will drown in cash. An all-round win. Ro actioning as I type. Mood-board assembly almost complete.

Battle begins

Here endeth the James O'Shaughnessy lesson. I went to considerable efforts to phase that DJ out of the inner circle. Now departed, he's taken up with Policy Exchange and career- rehab unit Portland, but of course he failed to follow proper procedure and someone must have tipped off the dozy civil service.

A falling-out with me doesn't end till a knockout, which of course is how I prepare Dave for PMQs. I am Mickey Goldmill to Dave's Rocky Balboa. Tommy B hates it, but then he'd do the same to me. Dave unleashes a fury of blows till Mili sways before slumping to the canvas. It's going to be hell.


Watched the train wreck that was Miliband's New Year comeback, AKA Milibomb. Someone in the office asked me what I'd have done to recover his fortunes. Obvious: they should have pulled the tapes on my events and asked themselves, "What would Hilton do? What questions would he plant?" etc. They have no feel for the street or clue about brand (re)construction. Mili needs to be out there getting down with the kidz. Set at Oxo Tower with a ridiculous backdrop of a lonely boat bobbing up and down in the Thames. Tommy doesn't have a clue.

The seven Ps

Just issued a memo for PMQ prep. Am shifting Dave from prizefighter role. Mindset change: God is a DJ. Dave is a DJ. Less aggression, more control. We pick his tunes and samples (my jokes). His job is to spin a 30-min set, leaving the House wanting more yet fuzzy with satisfaction. If he does that, we might score the ultimate coup: that Labour defector we've had our eye on finally agrees to cross the floor.


On a slight downer, Dave is likely to have to appear in front of the Celebrity Injured Feelings Inquiry and tell Lord Leveson, under oath, about his friendships with the various editors he sucked up to, which includes News Inter­national's arrangement to loan the unvetted Andy Coulson to the Tories. It's going to get very messy very quickly. I always said it was a massive error to bring him to No 10. My Twitter fans have heard it said many times: always blame Ed Llewellyn.

Bye-bye, baby

Anyway, I've nearly finished my Açai superfruits detox smoothie. Time to draft up some new orders including a couple of surprises in the reshuffle. More fine deletion than fine tuning.

*As told to @stevehiltonguru

This article first appeared in the 16 January 2012 issue of the New Statesman, The battle for Britain