So, coming back to the field of screams, the chamber of dipshits, I have to say, the atmosphere has certainly picked up. Last time I came in for a coffee the only sound was the soft shuffle of herds of wonks heading to the stationery cupboards to talk to corporate headhunters. The head of European policy was emailing Pret about their management training program. Most of the strategy unit were occupied with putting government property on eBay, and the foreign policy team were writing sexual slurs about Samantha Cameron on the undersides of their desks in permanent marker.

Now it's a hive of activity. There's a sense of hope. Your lads are handing round wedges of polling data like they're porno mags on an 80s school trip to the Sellafield visitor's centre. Someone's plugged a Glade air freshener in, and to be honest it makes me want to hurl. It's morning in America.

But as I see it there are two big hairy problem teenagers locked in the cellar threatening to break out:

1. Your people have no single fucking clue what in the wide wide world of field hockey is going on with the British electorate or why.

They know the Tories are dipping. But ask them why, and they smile a First-in-PPE-at-Arsepipe-College smile and say that "maybe it turns out people like a bully?". Bollocks. If people liked a bully I'd be drowning in Moët and John Lewis vouchers and sex texts. I am not. I don't know what's going on either, but I tell you what, we need more of a strategy than to say, "Ooo, winter's over in Narnia, let's watch the crocuses push up, and the rabbits hump and we can relax and put up our World Cup wallcharts."

2. We are still losing.

We are not winning. I don't think I can stress this enough. No poll puts us ahead. None. I suggest you shout that in the face of every little policy wang who bounces into the war room looking perky. When we're seven points ahead, that's when we start smiling and breaking out the baby oil and Curly Wurlys.

Now, as we know, the various polling organisations use different methodology. Mori and Populus phone people, YouGov use an internet panel, and I believe some of the cheaper outfits prefer throwing a spanner in the street and then getting the lunk it takes out to put his finger on one of three colours when he wakes up in casualty. As you know, I prefer to conduct my own polling by the means of ripping chickens apart, and reading the tea leaves I have force-fed them. And what this is telling me is that however well we think we're doing, we are currently located midway up shit creek, in the vicinity of the hamlet of Nofuckingpaddles.

So what do we do? In my view, as DC gets ready to roll out SamCam in a bid to appear not to be the lardy-cheeked plum sucker the entire nation instinctively knows he is, the big angle we need to hit this week is: TORY NUTTERS!

We've got a clear story to tell on this. They're in bed with the Ulster Unionists. And I think this is a good week to not unfairly characterise these guys as beardy weirdy, bollocks-in-the-mangle old-time-religion, one-step-from-Waco fruitcakes.

Then we have the Young Britons' Foundation. As we know, the links between these bright young blitzkriegers and Conservative Future are stronger than the bond between Charlie Clarke and his takeaway menu. We need to push this. Any hint of the old "hang Mandela" T-shirt vibe would be great for us, so you want the research team not leaving their desks, fed moulinexed Diet Coke and Subway sandwiches through intravenous tubes till they hit pay dirt. Anything will do. Feed it all in – even Young Tories voicing reservations about the narrative structure of the third act of Invictus. It can all hurt.

Finally there is Ashcroft. Here the line is simple. Ashcroft. Millionaire. Belize. In the public's mind we want them to be thinking: Bond villain who's made his money out of sex chatlines and child-labour landmines. Bish bash bosh.

Until next week. Regards. Malcolm.