From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s first lady across the water
NEW This Morning hosts? One old and objectionable, the other young and blonde with a brilliant smile? I know just the couple.
Works best if they’re married? And if the man blunderingly asks all the questions you shouldn’t but secretly want to, while the woman giggles prettily while possessing an incisive brain?
They’d need a media background? And to be simultaneously loved and hated by the public? And to be approved of by the Daily Mail? How many ticks do you want me to put on one piece of fucking paper?
‘Bollocks to that,’ says Big Dog. ‘I’m not getting up at the crack of dawn every morning.’ ‘It’s not on until ten,’ I say. ‘Exactly,’ he says. ‘They’d want me there at nine, half-nine at the latest, sober. Be worse than Downing Street.’
‘I don’t think we have a choice,’ I say, gently. ‘This isn’t about a million a year each or you undermining any goverment foolish enough to follow yours. This is about chemistry. Our chemistry.
‘You’re far better than Schofield. You’re in Madeley territory. While I’m the upgrade to Holly the nation never knew it needed, less ravaged by time and with a keener intelligence. It’s the perfect synthesis of everything This Morning needs.’
‘I’m not doing any prep,’ he says. ‘Do you think Judy did, apart from gin?’ I reply. ‘It’s your perfect gig. Turn up, bluff through, piss off for lunch after two-and-a-half-hours and skip Fridays altogether.’
‘This is what we’ve been waiting for,’ I insist, ‘this is why we’ve turned down all the offers from GB News. This is how we become the national conversation again.’
‘Fair enough,’ he says. ‘Shame about Holly. She was worth a bang.’
