I brought up Angela Rayner. He immediately said 'I would'

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

I’M NOT naive. I’m perfectly aware that my husband has a history. But I thought the Mail story was the fevered sexual imaginings of a frustrated hack until he confirmed it.

‘Angela Rayner?’ he said. ‘Definitely. Red hair, red politics, all the other red flags? I wouldn’t turn that down. Incendiary in bed. Christ.’

‘I thought you called her a sour-faced lefty cow?’ I said. ‘Who looks at you like you’re dogshit on her shoe, even though she’s a council estate slag and you’re prime minister?’

‘Well yes, but both can be true simultaneously,’ he said. ‘Anyway if it was ever on it’s right off now thanks to the bloody Mail. They cock-block me more than Michael fucking Gove.’

It hadn’t been the conversation I’d been expecting. I know that passion can flourish across political divides. After all, I’m a progressive firebrand who ended up in bed with an Old Etonian.

That’s different, because I’m actually humanising his free-market instincts and helping shape Britain into a forward-thinking 21st century nation, not just some bit of stuff. But still… Rayner?

‘Was it you who compared her to Basic Instinct?’ I asked. ‘Never seen it,’ he replied, pouring himself a Chablis. ‘But it is deliberate.’

‘Really?’ I said. ‘Mmm, for sure. She knows what she’s doing. Flashing those common pins. Red rag to a bull. Ruins my concentration. She’s heard I like a bit of rough.’

‘And… do you?’ I asked. ‘Bloody hell yes. Other extreme from my usual, but that’s the thrill. And I tell you what. She would as well.’

‘Lovely,’ I said, walking away without a word. Still, makes a change from worrying I’ll walk in to find him banging away at Dorries.

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An open letter to Elon Musk, by Tommy Robinson

DEAR Elon Musk. You are a billionaire. I am but a humble bankrupt patriot. But you can save me, Britain and Western civilisation by letting me back on Twitter. 

As the purchaser of a $43 billion social media network, I’m sure you have a lot on your hands. I understand. I’m too busy to go to bankruptcy hearings myself, and I never did sit down and find out what contempt of court is.

Your priority, however, is freedom. And I am a man imprisoned. Locked in a cage of silence by brutal woke guards. If you imagine Midnight Express with blue-haired pierced birds? Basically that.

Since Wednesday March 28th, 2018, when I was expelled from Twitter for pointing out the imminent danger of Muslims killing every single white person alive – a threat we’ve barely escaped on the 1,491 days since – the West has been undefended.

Britain has allowed its Islamophobia to slide back to dangerous levels of tolerance. You’d think Putin was more of a threat to the country than a mosque in Leicester the way traitors talk.

Without me, Burnley pensioners no longer quake in fear when an Asian walks past. Without me, leaderless footsoldiers in the race war waste their time defending statues. Without me, we’ve had a Brexit a good deal fucking softer on immigration than with me, I promise you that.

I’ve faded from the headlines, Elon. Time was everyone would quote-tweet my violence-inciting rants against Diversity winning Britain’s Got Talent, and the money came rolling in. Now? Fuck all. I’m on the bones of my arse if I’m honest. I’m drinking Aldi own-brand lager.

You’re a white South African. You agree with me. You know Twitter was a better place when I was on there, deftly sowing racial tension, giving it that white power buzz.

Facebook won’t have me. Instagram fucked me off. I even got banned from Snapchat and I didn’t even bother with TikTok, they’re totally anti-indigenous whites over there. You’re my only hope.

Go on, Elon. Let me come back in the name of free speech and I’ll have the libs howling. All the quitters will be back on to take their pop at me. It’ll be like the old days.

Yeah? First thing tomorrow would be good. I’ve got a citizen journalist job going intimidating someone who slagged me off to livestream. We’ve got the wrong address but whatevs.

Yours, Tommy