I thought they were friends. But make £60 million profit out of a national crisis and they turn on you

by Baroness Mone OBE, the bra, weight-loss, fake tan, cryptocurrency and personal protective equipment multi-millionaire

RISHI, Boris, Michael Gove – I thought these people were friends. Allies. But make a mere £60m profit from a national crisis and it’s a different story. 

Back in 2015? They couldn’t get enough of me. Blonde, Scottish, working-class origins, successful in the sexy tabloid-friendly bra business, ministers were queuing up. I only accepted a life peerage because Cameron wouldn’t stop asking.

Yes, there was that brief blip when I was invested in a tax avoidance scheme George Osborne called ‘morally repugnant’ and he’s hard to disgust, but I blamed it all on my then-husband and got away clean. Useful tactic incidentally.

The government loved me. I was against Scottish independence, I loved Brexit, we were best mates. Boris would call every other day just to pant wordlessly until he was finished.

And now? Not one call’s being answered. Not even Gove, and he normally answers within two rings in case it’s his dealer. Suddenly I’m a pariah just because of some dodgy PPE.

I thought we were Tories together? All following the same rule that no matter what happens, it’s our duty to make a profit out of it?

All I did was what any of us would; abused my connections, slapped a massive mark-up onto clearly defective goods, and hid the money in an offshore trust. And I’m the bad guy?

It goes to show you can’t trust anybody and friends aren’t worth shit. Never mind. I’ll always have that £60 million.

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Panto-goers confirm they only like theatre when it's shit

AUDIENCE members at a sell‑out Christmas pantomime have confirmed that they only enjoy theatre they know in advance will be shit.

Helen Archer, who is watching Jack and the Beanstalk at Birmingham Hippodrome with her kids, said: “Like all Britons I only come to the theatre once a year, to ensure I avoid seeing anything good.

“Pantomime has the same shit plot every year, the same shit comedy routines, stars slumming it, two blokes dressed as a cow and a dance routine to Barbie Girl. You know what you’re getting. Shit.

“Other times of year they have plays and you might have to pay attention. A lad at work saw Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman performed by a stellar cast at the Young Vic and was moved to tears by the plight of the individual in capitalism’s unfeeling grip. That’s not for me.

“No, give me overacting, throwing sweets, a girl slapping her thighs for the dads and a trained Shakespearean phoning in Twankey for the money every time.”

She then turned back to the stage, completely dead behind the eyes, and yelled to Alison Hammond that the crocodile was behind her.