From the diary of Carrie Johnson, wife of the member for Uxbridge and South Ruislip
TURNING on afternoon television to watch your husband smash his entire career due to a desperate miscalculation at least makes a change from Pointless.
Big Dog’s worked hard for this one. Lord Pannick’s been here so much I’d have charged him rent if we weren’t rent-free. He was up half the night doing childish scribbled notes.
But then I turn on the TV and there he is doing his mean stare at Harriet Harman like Paddington’s evil twin and before I unmute I know he’s fucked it.
‘I’m one of the best liars in the country,’ he said yesterday, an unusual boast for most husbands but is one I hear regularly. ‘Yes, love,’ I said, ‘but you’re not usually quite so pinned down.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, draining a Beaujolais from the Bamfords’ cellar. ‘A fudge here, a hedge here, a swell of self-righteousness about saving Britain, and they won’t know up from down.’
‘Last time you got pinned down by a lawyer,’ I remind him, ‘was Marina. Over me. And that left you homeless, flat broke, with two out of four kids calling you an arsehole.’
‘Mm,’ he said, which for him is something of an admission. ‘It’s women, you see? Don’t like being questioned by them. Gets my back up. And she’s a lefty. And plain.
‘Still, as long as I believed in my heart that I was following the guidance at all times they can’t touch me. And they can’t know what was in my heart, can they? The Boris Comeback Special, they’ll call it.’
I don’t say anything. I keep my counsel. And then I turn on the TV and watch my idiot husband crash and burn in real time.