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The text arrived as Zelensky was speaking. 'Yeah. You fucked the wrong comedy national leader'

From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady

ASK any woman; we like a man who can make us laugh. Ask any man; women like a guy who’s rich and powerful. I thought I had both. How wrong I fucking was. 

I wasn’t in the Commons, because apparently I’m not officially part of this government. But watching Zelensky on BBC Parliament, I had two thoughts: first, where’s my vibrator? Second, Big Dog is going to go fucking spare.

Thankfully I’d got the first out of the way before he crashed upstairs in a rage. ‘Who does that prick think he is, quoting Churchill in front of me? He’s not Churchill. I’m bloody Churchill!’

I poured him a Shiraz from the wine box – we’re avoiding bottles because the Mirror’s been caught going through the recycling – and tried to mollify him, but he was in full flow.

‘Playing a piano with his dick? That’s a fucking variety act. I was hilarious on Have I Got News For You and it was wit! British wit! What’s he got that I haven’t, apart from khaki T-shirts and a war?’

At which point I was very careful not to glance at my phone, where my friend Nimco’s text about fucking the wrong leader was followed by a back-and-forth answering exactly that question. Younger, better-looking, and bravery under fire were the key points.

Thankfully he didn’t notice, kicking over an occasional table and waking up the baby instead. By the time I got back his anger was focused on the wine box. He’d never encountered one before and had no idea how to make it work.

Another glass and he calmed down. A third glass and it was his arm around my shoulders and commiserating with poor Zelensky in his bunker.

‘I know how he feels,’ he said. ‘You get elected. You think it’ll be a laugh. Then some bollocks virus or dictator goes and makes it a shitload of hard work.’

‘To Zelensky!’ he toasted. ‘To Zelensky!’ I joined in, for very different reasons. He’ll never know.

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Let’s move to a railway junction of deprivation! This week: Crewe

WHAT’S it about? 

A lot of trains go through here. You’ve probably changed trains here once. Maybe, if there was an hour or more’s delay, you wandered out to find a street of Cash Converters and violent pubs and concluded it was rough near the station. No. It’s all like that.

Any good points? 

Urban planning fans will love Crewe’s dehumanising system of roundabouts and dual carriageways. Or if you’re a pedestrian, wander around the town centre with its wide range of vape shops, charity shops, closed shops and market stalls selling second-hand stairlifts that somebody died in.

Or venture further to the retail park filled with the same fucking shops you see everywhere else, from Next to Sports Direct to Food Warehouse. The car park’s especially confusing to facilitate near-misses and punch-ups between angry men in their early 40s.

Wonderful landscape? 

The Cheshire plain is flat and featureless. To make up for this, Crewe’s criss-crossed with a network of train tracks and hardly any bridges, so one wrong turn means you’re driving seven miles out of your way. Even if you’ve lived here your whole life don’t expect to recognise landmarks. It’s terraced streets and railings around industrial facilities whichever way you go.

Queens Park is stunning in comparison. In summer you can watch a thriving population of yobs playing threatening football, and it has a small island commemorating the Burma campaign in WW2. Take your kids to learn about interesting Japanese war atrocities.

But the jewel in the crown has to be the local park’s game of giant chess, which despite not being exceptionally giant is even more thrilling than the permanently empty bandstand. ‘When a man is tired of giant chess he is tired of fucking Crewe,’ as Dr Johnson would have said.

Hang out at… 

The Lyceum Theatre. It’s not exactly the West End, so you’re less likely to see Mark Rylance in the new Mamet, and more likely to see Bradley Walsh in Dick Whittington. Or An Evening With Susie Dent which all parties involved will very much regret.

The Limelight used to be the nation’s top tribute band venue, with a new collection of musicians whose dreams have died imitating better musicians for money every night of the week. It’s now boarded up.

Gourmet? Conveniently located by the station is a vast array of cheap, identical and radically unhygenic takeaways. 15 different flavours of kebab meat in a bun, one of which will kill you.

Where to buy? 

Crewe offers many cheap terraced house-shares, great for meeting new people who like listening to loud music at 3am and are strange in an intimidating way.

There are plenty of highly desirable out-of-town properties, but that’s leafy Cheshire so you can f**k off. Unless you’re a consulting doctor married to a stockbroker or one of Cheshire’s many professional footballer arseholes. All of whom pretend Crewe doesn’t exist until they need a bong for a dinner party.

From the streets: 

Tom Logan, aged 36: “I moved here 15 years ago for work and I could never be arsed to move somewhere better. I’d highly recommend it to anyone wanting to relocate somewhere superficially tolerable that slowly sucks the life out you.”

Ryan Whittaker, aged 17: “It’s great because in a lot of town centres, gangs of teenagers aren’t around to strut around like they own the fucking place, walking five abreast and sweeping strangers into the gutter. But they are in Crewe.”

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