Boris and Carrie for This Morning. You know it makes sense

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.’ 

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Why I'm taking a year off music to live in Center Parcs, by Drake

HIP HOP star Drake, fresh from releasing new album For All The Dogs, has announced he is quitting music to spend 12 months in Center Parcs Sherwood Forest. His month-by-month plan: 


A full year in the greatest place on earth? That’s a flex. Me and the crew are in exclusive lodges, the best crib they offer, complete with hot tub and steam room. Blowing trees among the trees, you feel me?


Ain’t nothing more swag than waking up at the Parcs each day. Knowing not one rapper in a thousand – not Flo Milli, not Lil Uzi Vert, not Q-Tip – could afford this. Practice pool in the games room. My safety game gon’ be on motherfucking point.


Snowy walks around the site’s 400 acres of forest, my bodyguards enjoying snowy walks four to six metres behind me? Seeing in New Year butt-ass naked in the UK’s first treetop sauna? Living my best life.


By this time, I’m out of cash. 75 billions streams can’t fund the CenterParcs lifestyle long-term. I order my accountants to liquidate my investment portfolios and sell properties. I’m in this honeypot for a good time and a long time.


The month of kayaking. Except it isn’t because that shit is seasonal and only runs April-October. Sulk until March.


My son, who I’ve become a wonderful, loving father to after losing a beef with Pusha T, is finally here. I’ve been waiting so long, and now we can attend the Junior Falconers Club. Flying falcons like Saudi money, man.


Income’s low. We move into a woodland lodge, a step down, and I take a minimum-wage position pot-washing at the Foresters Inn.


Former collaborators Rihanna, A$AP Rocky and Giggs swing by for an afternoon of archery and shit. Explain they have to pay. Explain they’ll have to hire the bicycles, because Tracey on bike hire’s banned me for doing wheelies in pedestrianised areas.


One of my dogs flashes a piece in Laser Combat and we lose our holding deposit. Have to take second job as housekeeping.


Nine months eating at Bella Italia and I’m out of shape. I go HAM on Bounce Boogie, freestyle yoga and badminton. Get my face painted like a butterfly for the 45th time this calendar year.


11 months at CenterParcs is just about right for me. Not so long it gets boring or repetitive, not too short that you can’t learn to know every staff member’s name and how they live. By now I’m part of the furniture with my own keys to the five-a-side pitch. It’s the acceptance I crave.


Flat broke, evicted, all my royalties signed over permanently to the Parcs, I need to get back to music. A few spins down the Tropical Cyclone and I leave the domes behind. From now on it’s recording studios and arena gigs a world away from my happy place, a holiday park in Nottinghamshire just off the A614.