I wanted Florence Pugh. I'd have taken Lily James. So who the f**k is this bitch they've got playing me?

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?’

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Don’t be afraid to try your hand at a curry, by Colin the emotionally unstable chef

CURRIES are incredibly tricky and involved to make, right? Or is it just perserverance, cooking savvy and throwing spices at meat? What can go wrong? 

Buy your herbs and spices

I’m opting for a simple Goan chicken curry. Turns out I need coriander seeds, cumin seeds, black mustard seeds, nigella seeds, cinnamon, cloves, peppercorns, nutmeg, fenugreek, cardamom, red chilli, tamarind, masala paste, bay leaves and ghee.

I’m in the Indian supermarket fucking forever. No problem though, I’ve only got a mild throbbing sensation in my temples. It’s worse in the left one than the right.

Measure your ingredients

Now you need to grind and measure the spices. Wish the recipe was a bit clearer about quantities. Also it’s extremely boring. It’s not stressing me out though. Not me. Not at all. Okay, I did threaten to kill the cat, but I didn’t actually do it. I just got irritated by its FUCKING MIAOWING.

Prepare the other ingredients

Put plum tomatoes in the blender, marinade the chicken then brown it with some onions. Finally, put everything into a large pan and cook slowly for several hours. It doesn’t fucking stop there, though, oh no. Now make six nan breads and do the prep for fragrant basmati rice. This is starting to make life in a gulag look like a skive.

Still, it’ll be worth it when my guests try their authentic curry made from scratch. Shit, I forgot the poppadoms and chutneys. Fuck fuck fuck. I can sort this. Yes. I just need to control this anxiety attack. I assume this is normal for making a curry.

Realise something’s gone horribly wrong

The curry’s ready but something is amiss. A fuckton of herbs and spices and it’s weirdly bland. Hours down the fucking drain. My advice at this point as a chef would be to make sure any chairs you have in the kitchen are good and sturdy, because I broke one rather easily just by smashing it against the wall.

Have your spirit utterly crushed

When your guests arrive, nervously await their verdict on the curry. You guessed it, they’re not keen. Your despair gives way to rage. Hugh says curry should be cooked then left overnight for the flavours to develop. What does he know about making a curry? He’s from pissing Luton.

Fantasise about grabbing Hugh by the throat and choking him. Make a mental note to do a tagine next time.

Remember Indian restaurants exist for a reason

Like an addiction or a serious illness, try to walk away from this negative experience with a positive. I now know to never make your own curry when you can just get one fucking delivered.

I’ve come through it, but the scars will be with me forever. By which I mean I’ve got a drawer full of spices I’ll never fucking use again.