From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady:
TWO children, the oldest a toddler. A young, beautiful mother who could be left homeless. ‘And divorced,’ said Dorries, who’s been on the Pinot.
She’s here all the time now, which doesn’t help the last-days-in-the-bunker feel, nor does it help keep the wine fridge stocked. ‘Can’t we get rid of her?’ I asked him. No answer. So it appears we’re that fucking desperate.
How has it come to this? Over Arse Pincher? Who’s also hanging around, because he’s afraid if he gets photographed leaving Downing Street the world will remember he’s the one twat that hasn’t quit.
‘Logically,’ Big Dog said, taking a nip of single malt to fortify himself before the select committee, ‘once you’ve resigned, nobody gives a shit what you think because you’ve resigned. So this clears a path to appoint Boris loyalists.’
‘Brilliant,’ Dorries said. ‘I’m ready to do whatever it takes. I’m already multi-tasking as an MP and a bestselling novelist. I could handle say five cabinet posts.’
‘I could do education,’ said Pincher. ‘We’ve fucking got someone in education,’ I snapped, covering Romy’s ears. ‘Logic doesn’t apply. This is the Tories. What did Gove say?’
‘That I needed to go for the good of the party,’ he said, taking another nip. ‘Same as the rest of them. As if I gave a fat dick about the party. Or the country.’
‘They can’t make you go,’ I said. ‘What about me? What about the kids? What about Chequers? Can’t we just ignore it?’
‘That’s the plan,’ he said. ‘Stay in office, ignore all the no-confidence shit, talk up the mandate from the electorate. Wait it out, come roaring back, triumph at a general, the Boris Era rolls on.’
‘And if that doesn’t work?’ I said. ‘You’ll be looking for a second husband,’ said Dorries. Sly bitch. Though if I’m honest she’s not wrong.
