He's not acting like a dead man walking. He's acting like he's untouchable for the next year

From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady: 

DEAD MAN WALKING, the headlines said. He wasn’t a dead man back here. More like a man given a punishment-free year. 

He rolled in pissed Monday night, so much so that he only got through Tuesday’s cabinet by finishing my Prosecco at 8am. By that afternoon he was in a fantastic mood. 

‘It’s a free pass,’ he said. ‘Anything they catch me for over the next year, whether it’s the cost of your wallpaper or grabbing Penny’s arse, it’s priced in. I’ve got a licence to do whatever I bloody well like.’ 

‘I don’t think that’s how they see it,’ I said. ‘And? Who’s the prime minister? Who’s the fucking daddy? Who can’t have another vote of no confidence against him until June 5th, 2023?

‘By which time it’ll be too late to kick me out. I just got given carte blanche for the rest of this parliament. I can do whatever I fucking want and I’m starting right now.’ 

I nod, while trying to think of where he’s operated with restraint so far and coming up blank. It’s not like he wants to take political risks. He couldn’t give a fuck about politics. 

‘Does that mean we don’t have to holiday in shitty Cornwall?’ I asked, hope rising. ‘Can we fuck off the press and go to Mustique again?’ 

‘Exactly, darling,’ he said, ‘now you’re getting it. They can bleat all they like. Lobbying, hanging out with fascists, big wedges of oligarch cash. There won’t be a rule of politics I don’t break. They’ll talk about this bender for years.’ 

‘You won’t break your marriage vows though,’ I said. ‘That’s behind you, you said. That was only because your wife didn’t understand you.’ 

‘Oh absolutely,’ he said, but with a pensive look, like something had just occurred to him. 

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How To Dress Like A… red-trousered braying public-school arsehole

POST-JUBILEE, post no-confidence, Britain’s waking up to the truth that the ruling classes absolutely rule. Want to establish yourself as establishment? Slip into these: 

Red trousers

Hello, Henry – jeans, chinos or Cotswolds chap corduroy, red is simply the natural colour for a trouser. Signifies danger, signifies heat, signifies leveraged debt. Step into Burberry’s Regent Street flagship and step out the other side red enough to stand out like a Tory rebel in a Blue Wall seat. Exactly why do the low-waged use food banks instead of selling a horse?

Excellent shirt

It could be white, or blue, and that’s the full spectrum of choices boys, don’t get greedy. White lines? Are for snorting. Remember the three Is: immensely expensive, intimately tailored, and from a former Imperial colony. I prefer Malaysia or anywhere in Tsim Sha Tsui, Hong Kong.

Carelessly-knotted scarf

Save your six-yard-deep silk tie collection to impress those who matter: CEO, oligarch’s daughter, duties manager at Royal Ascot. Dress down and seize the opportunity for a scrap of self-expression that isn’t wholly monetary. Warning: patterns only, never a picture, or you’ll look like a provincial art teacher on a dreadful little gallery day.

Jacket or blazer

A dizzying infinitude of options for the Tory donor. Piping or no piping? Brown or slate? And should the lining be bold or muted? Decisions like this can take a young man with capital reserves of a few million all morning when he should be bankrupting mum-and-dad Bitcoin investors and flipping their homes for short-term profit. Minted!


Ray-Ban, either Wayfarers or Aviators. Crazy, but on the eyes Prada’s for the proles.

Hand-made loafers

Judge a man by his shoes, his income and his manners; you can buy the first. Go suede with leather soles to hammer home that you only walk from the restaurant to the purring Mercedes at the kerb. Always hand-made Italian, or in summer white slip-ons without socks are delectably obnoxious. They want to punch you, but you’re behind the velvet rope!