Oh, it’s you, Johnson. I suppose once that silly Bonham Carter woman had blabbed about our conversation then it was inevitable that you would come out of the woodwork. Not that you can even trust her to report what was said accurately. All I said was that I had been dead for more than 17 years and I didn’t give a damn if she played me or not. Personally, I could think of several others – Grace Kelly, for one, who would have done a better job – but as they have all croaked as well, I suppose that might have been tricky.
Will you please stop talking while I’m interrupting? And why did you have to call at such an inconvenient time? Didn’t anyone tell you that I spend the hours between two and four sleeping off the first few drinks of the day?
No, no, no. How many times do I have to tell you? What? No, not you Johnson. I’m talking to the servants. The staff in the afterlife are every bit as useless as they were at the palace. No, I do not want the lamb chops for dinner. Not tonight. Not any night. Just light me another cigarette and then bugger awf.
So, it’s advice you need is it, Johnson? I’m guessing that it’s a bit late in the day for you to say: “But you were so much better in bed than her” to your wife. It worked for me for a while. After that, things rather fell apart on a personal level. As they seem to be for you. At least I had the sense to take lovers who could be relied on to be relatively discreet. And even when the papers printed photographs of me with John Bindon – now there was a gangster you could trust.
But what were you thinking of, Johnson, when you got involved with that Arcuri woman? Were you really so desperate for a quickie that you so openly took her on business trips with you – and did I hear something about a letter recommending her for a job?
Good grief. The first rule of any extramarital is deniability. And the second is that you are the one who is doing the favour. When the paps were snooping around Mustique hoping to catch me and Roddy together, you can’t imagine I would have written a letter to the Queen saying: “Roddy has planted petunias in my window box and on this basis I can wholeheartedly recommend him to relandscape Balmoral.”
Anyway, Johnson, you can go now. And no, I don’t want to hear about your Brexit troubles unless you’ve got any interesting gossip about Emmanuel Macron. You’re boring me now. Run along.
God? GOD? Where are you? Get me another whisky.