From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady
I AM off-limits. Not my rules – Westminster convention. Wives and girlfriends are kept out of politics. But nobody told that eagle-from-the-Muppet-Show bitch.
The public have a right to know if I’ve been fined? Why? I’m not a minister in this government, even if I could do a far better job than most of them and specifically Nadine Dorries, the lovelorn cow.
But I am a private citizen, and a young mother, and a victim of crime. If a single good can be found in this whole grubby affair, it’s protecting me.
So what does Starmer do? Goes at me like a nasty little terrier at a postman, despite looking more like the fucking postman. A self-important twat one who’s also the union rep.
Why am I any of his business? Except for the obvious. Seen Mrs Starmer? No, and that tells its own story, doesn’t it? When Corbyn’s got a hotter wife than you have, that’s going to cause some deep underlying anger.
And when the prime minister’s got a hotter wife than you? One who’s half your age, and easily the most attractive figure in British politics since Thatcher? A wife you can’t get out of your head even at the despatch box?
I told Big Dog. ‘He fancies me,’ I said. ‘All the Tories fancy you,’ he said, taking a slug of cognac straight from the decanter, which I wish he wouldn’t do. ‘Raab’s asked for your phone number.’ ‘No, Starmer,’ I said and his eyes went all tiny.
‘He bloody does, does he?’ he said, all angry. ‘This is like Paris and Menelaus fighting over Helen of Troy. Should I leak it to the Telegraph?’
‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘But yes if the fine comes out. If that happens he’s obsessed, sends me explicit WhatsApps and only wants to know about Downing Street’s decorations so he can imagine me naked on the chaise longue.’
‘Grrr,’ he said. So we’re covered either way. And hopefully the fine won’t come out regardless. Because I’m not fucking paying it.
