Fancy Twatt! – exclusive profile of the Conservatives’ secret weapon

He might be in the UK's top ten snobbiest people, and have been born with a silver spoon in his arse, but The Man Who Would Be King of Twatt is not short of revolutionary plans for Cornwall's oldest mining village. And, writes Larry McFlabby, he knows exactly what to do with a double-ended rampant throbber. HI is proud to bring you this exclusively syndicated profile of Stewart Silverpoon.

When I first meet Silverspoon on the 10.34 express from his constituency town of Happy Bottom, Bucks, rattling through Titty Ho, Horsey Windpump, Great Snoring and Cocklick End, he is every inch the Man of Today, from his Versace suit to his open Ted Baker shirt and Diesel watch. In fact, it is hard to imagine that he is one of the Conservatives' fastest rising stars. But then he opens his mouth, which he has a habit of doing, and yards of clankers tumble out.

Still on the back-benches, but bound for the shadow cabinet, Silverspoon is the proverbial enigma wrapped in a poncho, flavoured with vanilla essence and encased in a Corby Trouser-Press. He is publically wary of any mention of his proximity to the inner circle of "Cameroons", but loquaciously happy to provide a quote when pressed on his flowering friendship with the leader-in-waiting. "Have you seen the Christmas card he sent me last year? It was jolly nice of him to write." The card shows David Cameron and his family on an IKEA sofa in their Notting Hill home. It's printed in a handwritten font, and inscribed "Dear <<tbl_Toryparty_Forename_Surname>> Happy Christmas old goose! Love Dave and the gang." "Obviously they were just getting round to putting me on their database", he opines, hopefully.

The Silverspoon he presents to the adoring Party Faithful - hair by Just-for-Men, values by Enoch Powell - is a world away from the political homilies he spurts out weekly in his campaign rag, Twatt Matters. It is immaterial that he lives with a staff of six in a 14th century castle overlooking the Vale of Buckinghamshire, earns more than Sir Alan Sugar and lives by the family motto "AD VICTOR BENEFICIUM DONATUM" (To the victor go the spoils). "The point is, old chap, that I'm in touch with family values, and I know that the people of Twatt feel let down and angry about what Labour's done to their history and economy. And I don't simply mean the well-off, I'm talking about the single mums and the blacks."

Are they angry about the expenses row? "Well, yes, they are justifiably angry. And I'm angry too. How was I allowed to get away with spending that much from the tax-payers' pockets for egregious luxuries, for so long? The whole system is rotten, and that's what a Conservative government will fix." Never mind the tithes, get a load of the harvest. Was he embarrassed by the Rampant Throbber revelation in the Telegraph? "Yes, of course, but my farm animals and I are allowed a private life." Does he find my questioning style annoying? "Yes I bloody do! Your queries are both fatuous and irritating, McFlabby". Sorry, Mr Silverspooon.

Leafing through a copy of Twatt Matters is like bathing in brylcream and towelling yourself down with a loofah. You are immersed in a world where hybrid-technology busses carry happy Conservative-voting residents from the bustling, independently run organic delicatessan through the reclaimed tin pits to the brightly decorated Elder-care Community Centre and Eco-Village Recycling Zone. This giddy vision is washed down with a bucket of "back-to-work" medicine, which Silverspoon discusses as if there really is an obvious employment alternative to centuries of tin mining. He talks of it as "fixing Twatt's sink". I ask, naiively, if there is a sink estate near to the village. "It's meant to be a metaphor", he replies, slightly wearily. I tell him it's a bit of a shit one.

When we get to Twatt, I ask him if he really is politically connected to the "single mums and the blacks" and his expression is one of abject horror. "Oh God no! Not personally. But I am connected to them in the visual sense". Through which medium, I ask. He explains he means when they see him on TV. Is he worried that this disconnect may manifest itself at the polls in the upcoming by-election? "Well, I sincerely hope not", he declares. "I was very happy to be told by David to stand down from my safe seat in Happy Bottom, so that a black, disabled lesbian could be parachuted in, and instructed to stand in these gordforsaken marginal backwater badlands." He waves his arms around like a well-hung Italian spinning pizza bases in a roller-disco, to indicate the Twatt landscape. Then he catches himself. His penultimate words to me are, "Oh Christ, you don't think that makes me sound like a frightful arse do you?" I remind him that my journalistic code permits me to remember very little. Unconvinced, his final parting shot: "If you quote me saying that, I will ram this cornish pasty up your arse so far you'll be spitting mince and onions at your interviewees for 3 weeks solid."

The last time we talk, I am vomiting copiously outside the Olde French Grunt, Twatt whilst Silverspoon holds my Morrisons bags. He is charming, courteous, and, to a fault, vertical. My notes of the second meeting are patchy at best, but one phrase particularly strikes me. Fixing me with his steely blue eyes, he says, "This is the most depressing interview I have ever had to endure, Larry." But he says it with the sort of grace that makes you feel you are bathing in a pool of Archers and lemonade whilst the music of Billy J. Kramer floats across the night air. Which I am, and which it is. He pulls me to my feet, dusts me down and hands me my possessions. As the pub locks up for the night, we part company, he to one of his many houses to continue the campaign for a fresher Twatt, me to one of the village's three park benches to search for my wallet.

Larry McFlabby is Junior Political Editor for the Morning Twatt. He will be away next week for an undetermined period.