From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady
I AM owed a wedding. A proper wedding befitting a princess, which I effectively am, at a proper country house. Because that one last year was fucking shit.
It’s been an eventful year. Who even remembers Cummings doing his big dump on the Commons floor today? But at the time it was such a massive deal Big Dog came through the door and announced we were getting married.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I Zoomed Lulu Lytle about it today. She said that the custom elephant-shaped pavilion can be brought in for under £650k and Lord Brownlow’s sending her a cheque.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘we’re getting married on Saturday. I need some positive publicity and you’re it. Gove’s biking a dress round. Be a good girl and don’t make a fuss.’
A fuss? I was fucking furious. But I saw the advantage in hitching quickly and sold it to myself as the ultimate PR move: what greater sacrifice can a girl make than to plight her troth for a Sunday Times front page?
Still the resentment burned. I was promised a proper wedding, like the Beckhams but elevated by six levels of class. I was promised 400 guests at Chequers. Then he fucked up Chequers.
‘You have pissed on my dreams,’ I told him, the night he quit. ‘The dreams of a beautiful woman who could have been anything she wanted. My wedding’s ruined. I might spend the rest of my days drinking prosecco in my wedding dress, like Miss Havisham.’
‘Christ,’ he said, six cans into the stout. ‘Making it all about you. Look, things fucked up. I’m the first to admit that. Let me put a call in to the Bamfords.’
‘I am not having dancing JCBs at my cunting wedding,’ I screamed. ‘Not that,’ he said. ‘Daylesford. They’ll let us borrow it if I promise him I’ll get Truss to cut all working hours regulations when she gets in.’
‘That,’ I said, ‘will do for a start.’ Because I’m not difficult. I just maintain standards.
