From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady
ONCE again, a plane sat on the tarmac at Heathrow, awaiting clearance. Once again, a passenger was desperate not to fly. But it was me and we had to.
I tried every legal recourse, from ‘I should stay and look after the kids’ to ‘I’m uncomfortable with their human rights record’ and nothing worked. ‘You’re coming,’ he said. ‘Prince Charles is there, and I never know what to say to the jug-eared cunt.’
So, one week after the Rwanda deportation flight didn’t take off, mine did. ‘You’ll love it,’ said the same dickhead who claims it’ll deter refugees from crossing the channel. Bullshit. Even I couldn’t PR Rwanda.
Problem is it’s not just Charles. All the heads of the Commonwealth look at him the same way: like he’s exactly the kind of cavalier, overeducated pink idiot we used to send to run their countries. And Big Dog has no idea.
‘This feels right,’ he said, swigging a Mongozo banana beer. ‘A few more summits and we’ll get the Empire back together. Pretty sure India’s realised independence wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’
‘Maybe,’ I said, because I wasn’t high on colonialism. ‘Most of them seem to be dictators. You can’t send me out with their wives. I can’t keep up with the shopping.’
‘Democratically elected,’ he replied, ‘with 98 per cent of the vote, some of them. No free press, so they don’t get the shit I do off the media. They make their wives treasury minister and nobody gives a bugger.’
‘I thought we weren’t talking about that,’ I said. It still hurts, that he knows how capable I am and hasn’t helped my career in the slightest. If anything he’s held me back. ‘Anyway, talking of elections?’
‘Tiverton and Wakefield?’ he said. ‘Fuck all that. Not my problem. I’m in Rwanda,’ and opened another Mongozo.