From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady:
I TOOK the call. ‘RAF Barnham here, we’ve a blonde woman says she’s foreign secretary? And she’s looking to check an AK-47 out of stores for a photoshoot?’
‘Is she talking in an abnormally low voice?’ I said. ‘Yeah.’ ’And doing a weird little head-tilt, and striding purposefully?’ ‘Yeah, that’s her,’ he said.
‘No idea who she is,’ I said. ‘Don’t let her stand near any military hardware looking resolute. Keep her off the premises.’ And hung up. So that’s Liz Truss fucked over for the day.
War is a serious business. It can make or break reputations. If there’s a tank, fighter jet or crate of weapons to be photographed in camo gear next to, it’s going to be my Boris not that bitch.
Going to Poland didn’t work out. Nobody noticed and he had to tell the truth, which is pretty fucking far from his comfort zone.
Putin won’t take his calls. Biden won’t take his calls. The EU won’t take his calls. Zelensky charged £350k in surface-to-air missiles to do one positive tweet about him, which makes Kylie pissing Jenner’s prices look reasonable.
The world really has changed overnight. I’ve spent the last three evenings deleting oligarch numbers from Big Dog’s phone. He barely knows how to use it, of course, which is how he ended up posting his cock to the ERG WhatsApp that time.
So I have to step in. And it’s a sobering experience. Goodbye Alisher, farewell Roman, dosvidaniya Sergei. The lights are going out all over Europe. They may not donate again in our lifetime.
Zac says they’ve all just piled into Bitcoin, on the other hand, and Britain’s the only safe superyacht harbour in Europe so we’ll soon be more Russian than ever. Which is a cheering thought after all that terrible property damage on the news.
