They can't have Boris's pandemic texts because our love cannot not be stripped bare at a public inquiry. Also all the criminal shit

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

WOULD the letters of Romeo and Juliet be sent to a public inquiry? Cyrano and Roxane? Why are the WhatsApps of those lovers Boris and Carrie any different? 

Does Baroness Hallett, the Covid enquiry’s heartless chair, not remember we weren’t even married then? So our tender missives of adoration, our coos and kisses, our secret midday fucks against the fireplace in the White Room are not liable to subpoena? 

Because, among the flowerings of devotion between a man born to rule and his gentle, radical guiding star, there are more than a fucking few about the Chequers parties. And about 120-180 of my nudes. Lockdown was a difficult time. 

‘Fucking Rishi’s lawyers shopped me to the pigs,’ says Boris, from the private jet. I asked whose it was and he had no idea. ‘I’m not losing my seat. I’m PM again after this.’ 

‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘What about my texts? You’re over the Atlantic, can you do a Vardy and lose them?’ 

‘Not that simple,’ he says, over the distinctive sound of single malt gurgling into crystal tumbler. ‘They’re on the official phone, you see. Backed up.’ 

‘So they know about-’ ‘Chequers,’ he confirms. ‘Which parties?’ ‘Easter, the ABBA one, Spring Break, Mardi Gras, Cinco de Mayo, the lot. With guest list, photos and booze orders.’

For a moment I drift back to that Chequers summer. With the nation locked down and Special Branch sworn to secrecy, we partied into the silent nights. ‘Taylor Swift was right. This is why we can’t have nice things,’ I mused. 

‘Uh?’ he said. ‘Never mind. But can’t we be allowed to redact them? All my dewy, innocent protestations of love are on there. And my nudes.’ 

‘Not just yours,’ he says, just before the phone goes dead. 

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The bastard offspring of Grease and a horny GI: The gammon food critic hits the 1950s all-American diner

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who’s now ready to admit that fair enough, Boris took the piss

WHY so many right-winger are Yankophiles I’ll never know. A brash, cultureless mess of a country whose national pastimes are shooting schoolkids and police beatings. 

They came over here for World War Two, years fucking late, took all the credit, took our grandmothers for tea dances and got their knobs out. Farage disappointed me for ignoring all that because he wants a shooter.

And they pompously imagine they invented fast food. The sandwich dates back to 1762, numbnuts. Long before your so-called Declaration of Independence. But I don’t mind 50s music – anything up to and including 1980 is fine with me, I’m not closed-minded – and I’m more than partial to a burger.

‘Don’t shoot! I’m neither black nor a schoolkid!’ I quip on entering, only to discover the staff are unarmed and British. Good. I couldn’t have sat through an evening of nasal Californian drawl.

Decor? Polished chrome, red leather, a non-functioning jukebox no matter how many times you kick it. Musically it’s all Elvis, from that floundering period before we took them in hand and showed them how to make pop records. Doo-Wop? Bollocks.

Then the coronary arrived at the table. Burgers stacked with bacon, Monterrey Jack cheese, chilli, gherkins etcetera until you need the hinged mandibles of a fucking snake to bite the bastard. No wonder Elvis shat himself to death.

I get through it – doesn’t taste of much – and wash it down with a root beer. Not a milkshake because they cost six fucking quid and ‘malted’ isn’t a flavour.

For dessert I go for the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Avalanche, named after that movie about the gay cowboys. A good film that didn’t need the gayness. Anyway, it’s like when kids make cakes: rice krispies, peanut butter, fudge, chocolate sauce and fucking disgusting.

I get up to leave, table covered in sticky shite, and reflect that Americans might speak English but they’re still foreigners who collapse at Disney World, aged 32, morbidly obese, suffering fatal cardiac arrests in the queue for Dumpster O’Smores.

Lasting impression? As far removed from fine dining as Scunthorpe United are from Superbowl LXV. But unlike the real USA I left without a gunshot wound.