By Carrie Johnson
TORY MPs? F**k them. The public? F**k them even more. Keir Starmer? He can f**k himself, he’s not worth the effort. This ends now.
Boris has to stay prime minister. Why? Because otherwise I’ve had two bloody babies with and married a useless old prick.
Those were not parties. I’ve been to parties, I can tell you. When Uncle Zac’s in a giving mood me and the girls have partied for 72 hours straight. Those were not even gatherings. They were sad bastard civil servants trying to drink enough to be worth talking to.
The resignations? Nobody who matters. Have you heard of any of them? No. It’s only a big deal because the media wants a fuss. It’s like trying to give a shit when Taylor Swift loses a backing dancer.
But like the benighted misogynists they are, the Tories are trying to put the blame on me. After what I’ve done for Downing Street’s image by clearing out the pissy stench of May’s leather trousers.
The wallpaper? Boris loved it. Is it my fault that Lulu Lytle has no understanding of how modern celebrity works and presented us with a bill? Who the f**k is she?
Sam Cam used to hide behind the curtains when there was company. Now buccaneering Britain has a real first lady, young and blonde and awake to issues of social injustice, but ‘bringing the baby to parties’ is apparently weird.
Lovely Boris is apologising, which he’s very good at, and Cressida’s promised absolutely no action which is a nice guarantee to have.
The bottom line is I cannot be hitched to a Telegraph journalist who doesn’t even own a house. So this country needs to get its act together. Realising how lucky it is to have me would be a start.
