Boris Johnson emerged from the shower yesterday morning in his New York hotel room only to discover that the last two months have never happened and he has simply dreamt them.

Aides have told him that when he thought he’d sent an old school chum, Jacob Rees-Mogg, to fib to the Queen, he hadn’t.

Similarly when he believed he had succeeded in treating the UK, its citizens and its institutions with extraordinarily high-handed contempt, he hadn’t.

He was also displeased to find out that when he supposed he had hired a mastermind cold and calculating strategist to run the show, he had in fact been sold a pup.

And finally despite his life of immense privilege, when he believed he could do whatever he bloody well wanted to do and to hell with the consequences, he couldn’t.

Nevertheless it is understood Mr Johnson still intends to attend tonight’s Oil Barons’ Ball before considering his position. It seems Donald Trump has told him “the food’s gonna be free, plentiful and real great. Just the best, and even better there will be a host of real hot babes serving the chow. It’s gonna be amazing, Horace.”