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Never listen to journalists: my ten-point plan to make Liz Truss the greatest prime minister this isle has ever known

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist slightly to the right of Hitler

COULD it be? Could Liz Truss, the underdog’s underdog, roar from her hobbled start to become the greatest prime minister ever? If she does everything I say?

It’s an inauspicious start. Her in-tray is piled high with calamity: a collapsing NHS, inflation shooting up like a smackhead on benefits, gas bills as high as that same smackhead after the opiates hit his bloodstream.

Millions are in fear of their futures. Even more are queuing up to give her advice, all of them wrong, addled by compassion, sentiment and Marxism. She should only listen to me:

One. Be Margaret Thatcher. She’s the most popular politician in living memory. Rich and poor, young and old, North and South, everyone adores her and always has.

Two. Ignore the media. They brought down Boris and they’ll do the same to you. Pay them no attention apart from the Sun, the Times, the Express, the Mail, TalkTV, GBNews and my column in the Telegraph. Treat those like gospel and obey their every instruction.

Three. Govern as a Conservative! The British people love conservative policies like privatising utilities, pursuing short-term profit over long-term stability, and low wages. Just look around you to see their success.

Four. Reform the NHS by charging for it. Everyone loves paying that bit extra or Taste The Difference would never have taken off. £10 to see GP, £100 for A&E, the cost of the operation plus 35 per cent for cancer. Also, cut pay across the board.

Five. Be a woman. Labour have never won an election against a woman, not even Theresa May.

Six. Keep appointing right-wing ethnic minority ministers, even if they’re as shit as Priti Patel. Blows leftie minds.

Seven. Become the party of law and order again by passing lots of new laws. Not by hiring police, that’s expensive. Just pass the laws and piss off.

Eight. Climate change can go and fuck itself. China and India aren’t doing it, so why should we? Dump net zero quicker than Boris will dump Carrie.

Nine. Never, ever deliver. Like an ASOS order, policies only disappoint when they arrive. In the true spirit of Brexit just promise continually instead.

Ten. Finally, don’t do any televised interviews at any point. We both know why.

'That's The Placeholder in,' he said. 'What are we doing in our year off?'

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

IT’S quite the thing for power couples like Big Dog and I to take a sabbatical. So, after three bloody hard years, we’re having a break from Downing Street. 

He’s put a locum in while we recharge our batteries. ‘Will she be able to manage it?’ I said. ‘Fuck no,’ he said. ‘She’ll be a total fucking disaster. Even the Mail will be baying for her head after ten months. I’ve put it on their calendar.

‘Then I come triumphantly back, humbled, willing to serve, and I’m re-elected for a triumphant second term.’ ‘What about the energy crisis?’ I said. ‘It can piss off,’ he replied.

So not every detail of the plan is down. But we need this. We need the rest, we need the break from media scrutiny, we need to give time to our marriage, and more importantly we need the fucking cash.

He’s in talks with the Telegraph, and they’re not getting him for a bargain £275k a year this time. We need real money. There’s also his memoir, which predictably he’s on at me to ghostwrite while he lies on his arse.

‘You were there,’ he said, swigging another of Nadine’s bottles of Pinot. She’d stashed them all over the house. We found 34 and that’s not all. ‘You remember what happened. I’m no good with dates and names and objective facts.

‘So you do the first draft and I’ll come in afterwards, sprinkle a bit of the Boris magic, spice it up, really get stuck into my grudges against Rishi and Gove and that wanker Zahawi, summer bestseller, shitloads of royalties. What’s the problem?’

‘The problem is that it’s my time to shine,’ I explained. ‘To surf the waves of Carrie fever the nation is awash in. To launch my lifestyle brand, do my Vogue cover, all that Michelle Obama shit.’

‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Well, we’ve got a year. We can do both. But first, Rupert’s invited us to his ranch in Australia for a month.’ ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Free at last.’

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