From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s first lady
ABSOLUTELY furious. Bouncing off the walls. They should not be able to get away with this. Some no-mark third-rate actress? Playing me?
They’ve got Ken fucking Branagh playing Big Dog. The greatest actor of his generation playing the greatest liar of his. But for me? Miss Ophelia pissing Lovibond Nobody.
‘She has. Been in. Nothing,’ I explained to him, when he asked who’d kicked dents in the fridge door. ‘Some shit sitcom. Post-credits in a Marvel movie. A crackhead prostitute in The Bill.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Reminds me, did you hear about the fines? Good news I thought. Putting pressure on the Met really worked out. Remind me to call Durham.’
‘I don’t give a fuck about your fucking fines,’ I replied. ‘The most glamorous first lady in British history and they give the role to some dues-earning cunt? It’s an insult.
‘I expected Florence. I deserved Florence. The cardigan-wearing cow’s nicked my style and flashed it all over LA. I’d have settled for either of the Lilys. If it was ginger minge from Game of Thrones I was prepared to be pissed off. But this?
‘Apart from anything else she’s two years older than me. And common as shit. And chubby. And she voted Corbyn.’
‘Let’s have a look at her,’ he said, opening a can of Pimms. ‘Mmm. See what you mean.’ He’s honest when it comes to women. ‘I would, but from behind. Is she in it much? Maybe that’s why they cast D-list.’
‘I fucking hope she’s in it,’ I snapped. ‘Otherwise it’s hardly accurate, is it? There’s only me keeping this administration on the rails. It should be the main bloody role but Branagh’s such an egotist.
‘There’s only one way Britain will ever know the real story,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to write the screenplay myself. It won’t be hard, I’m in PR. And I’ll insist on a casting veto.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, not listening. ‘Who’ve they got in for Dom? Whatsisface Cummerbund again? Anyway, did I mention they’ve let us off all those fines?’
