From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady:
ONE of the maids brought me the questionnaire, crumpled and stained with Merlot. She had this face on her like she was trying to hide her disgust. So she’s fired.
But the minute Big Dog came upstairs I was at him. ‘I thought you said you’d done this? Didn’t the police want it back last fucking Friday?’ He shrugged like it was none of his problem. ‘Dick’s gone,’ I reminded him. ‘Whoever’s in charge might take it seriously.’
So after the kids were in bed I sat him down and got it out, ignoring the whinging. Somebody’s got to keep this country running for all the thanks I get.
‘Where were you on the night of Friday May 20th?’ I said. ‘No fucking idea,’ he said. ‘You were at the party,’ I said. ‘Put that then,’ he said. Dickhead.
Luckily I found the Sue Gray report which actually has all the details on. And luckily for him I’m one of the top PR professionals in the country, so I know how to massage the facts. Work meeting, work meeting, only there 15 minutes and thought the cake was for Rishi, work meeting.
Put ‘An Englishman’s home is his castle’, Boris said as he finished the bottle. ‘Actually no, put et domus sua cuique est tutissimum refugium. That’ll fuck them up.’
‘How many were there in total?’ he asked at the end. ‘Ten they know about,’ I said. ‘So £100 each? Bung a grand in the envelope. That should cover it.’
I suggested that, since we were working, we catch up on my world-beating Net Zero initiative. But before I finished the sentence he had his cock out and after that there’s no talking to him.
Ah well. I’ve done my bit for Britain. And apparently this Ukraine business is a lot of fuss about nothing.
