BEFORE Boris Johnson’s peculiar brand of diplomacy leaves us digging out those old Protect and Survive manuals, Podium felt it wise to get its own house in order.

With a Kinnock threatening to take on ‘Militant’ socialists, bearded lefties railing against Trident and a hectoring Tory from Middle England hovering into view, this could be the early 80s redux.

No-one wants to revisit the era where greed was not only good but almost obligatory so here’s my five-point plan for health, wealth and wellbeing.

If I had any funds to invest, I’d plump for education stocks.

Another sixth form is opening, in the form of the King’s Academy at Woolston. Together with a new university technical college. Into an already overstocked and confusing marketplace.

Never mind what grades little Johnny is expecting in his GCSEs, parents should be openly touting for free espresso machines and foot spas when it comes to further education selection. Shop around, they can’t all survive.

If someone were daft enough to send me to Vegas, I’d want Jeremy Hunt to work his magic on those craps dice.

Because let’s face it, you could hear the champagnes cops corks popping prematurely in hospital theatres from Charing Cross to Christies when it was (wrongly) rumoured the handsome little chap could be a goner in Theresa May’s cabinet merry-go-round.

But despite being as popular as a double enema to most physicians, the Huntster lives on. The next thing you know, every hospital patient will be signed up for Sky TV at their bedsides.

If I want to remain in the peak of physical fitness (or the Magill rough approximation of such) it’s time to go private.

No matter how often the concept of these super-practices, where three or four surgeries unite, is explained to me it makes me feel more than a little uneasy.

Which is unfortunate, as the Lord alone knows which of my local GPs would assist me through such a malaise.

(Though if they could be accompanied with a little digital device, outlining how many hours they’d worked that week to maintain a five-star service, that would be peachy.) Somewhere, somehow, there’ll be an accountant behind this latest production line brainwave, ticking a box, totting up a percentage. Like we’re so many widgets, jammed into pigeonholes to meet some fly-by-night target and produce a headline grabbing figure.

n If the unseasonal warm snap, and resultant proliferation of leggings, tattooed flesh and flip-flops induces a homicidal rage, I want Sean O’Loughlin’s brief in my corner at the first arraignment.

One game kicking his heels after putting the unfortunate Chris Annakin out of action for three months, with a stiff arm the late Ultimate Warrior would have been proud of?

You can keep Kavanagh QC or Perry Mason – Lockers’ legal eagle is Podium’s first port of call when the red mist eventually descends.

Perhaps it would serve the RFL right if Hull stuffed Wigan in their Challenge Cup semi-final, after their jaw-droppingly lenient interpretation of their own rulebook.

And if I want to get a handle on major world events, I’ll leave Facebook and Twitter the hell alone.

For weeks now I’ve fretted about all the wasted time, spent finding out next to nothing via those electronic scrolls of entropy.

Social media is an oxymoron. You never pick out an entity or topic which are not entirely within your own narrow sphere of interest to follow or ‘like’.

The chances of perusing a paper (print or digital) for viewpoints and thoughts which may challenge your entrenched way of thinking is fast becoming an alien concept.

One lesson gleaned from Facebook/Twitter on Nice or the Turkish coup this week?

#itsallaboutme.