Wednesday 9 November 2011

The Rebekah Brooks Diary Part 4

Well, Dear Diary, I've been keeping schtumm as Rupert asked me to but now I really must speak out. One's private affairs are splashed all over the newspapers - well, the Guardian anyway so none of my friends will believe it, muckraking left-wing rag that it is. Jeremy wanted to sue it for libel but he'd have had to buy a new suit for the court case (Ginsters pies and petrol fumes go to the waistline, Jeremy) so he didn't bother.

Anyway, back to moi. I'm being pilloried for accepting money as a settlement for resigning as chief exec of NI. That's News International, not Northern Ireland. Note to self: it's a diary, not a Sun editorial, no need to epxlain everything. Well, people, get this: it's called capitalism and a fair day's pay for a fair day's work. I was chief exec through difficult times and put a lot into that job. Okay, my style wasn't as hands on as some might have liked (or insinuated, toadying little Parliamentary committee) which is I why I knew nothing of what that royal reporter was up to. I still don't know why he bothered - look what the Mail does - prints a pic every two days of Pippa's arse and calls it Royal News. If only we'd had a princess with a decent cleavage. Not that trollop Fergie of course, someone a bit less coarse for the Sun's demographic.

And my car! Well, it's not even my car, which the so-called journalists have missed. It's NI's car, and chauffeur. Do people expect me to get the Tube to my new office? "I'll see you at the Ivy at one". "Sorry I'm late, Tube on strike again." Ludicrous for a woman in my position. You wouldn't catch Boris on a Tube, at least not one that hadn't been fumigated before the press arrived. And the kids have threatened to strangle the cat if they see me wobbling around on a bike, even with a chauffeur-driven car around the corner with the boot open.

Letting things run away from me, much like James! I had a jolly good position and I resigned from it for the good of the company, after Pol Pot Belly said some rude things. Stuffed his cheeks with Heston's dumplings and mumbled about reason. "Make it two million reasons" I quipped. After all, I've lost that nice office I was borrowing, I've resigned 23 directorships and I've lost the chauffeur-driven car. Well, I haven't actually lost them, as I have a new office and the same driver but the trials and tribulations (note to self: is "trials" a bad word?) have caused me so much stress that I deserve these meagre compensations. It's not like I'll be signing on the dole like the NOTW people anyway.

I see the plods have started arresting Sun journalists. Charlie reckons it'll be "Sign this statement, please Sir." "Can I just do an X and leave a thumbprint." Chortle. I've forgiven him the crude jokes; he's been an absolute brick lately, and I mean "brick". Mind you, there was a distinct froideur the other night at the Camerons' place - just because Charlie asked if it was true that Liam Fox had accidentally made one of his ushers First Lord Of The Admiralty. I'm sure there was a snigger from the au pair - odd, given that she doesn't speak English. If I were SamCam I'd be checking that she isn't that fake sheik in another disguise.

Lovely bonfire the other night, even with two of Scotland Yard's finest watching that no papers went on the fire. The kids outdid previous records with their "Fiver for the Ed Milliband" outside Waitrose and he went up like Teflon Dave in the polls.

Not much else to say at the moment. I've allowed Charlie master bedroom privileges again and he's in the en-suite singing the Eton Boating Song. Good job the new car has comfortable seating!

Rebekah Brooks Diary:
   Part 1
   Part 2
   Part 3
   Part 4
   Part 5


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