It all seemed like it was going to be such a jolly jape.
Boorish de Waffle Johnson you were arsing about as the Prime Minister of the flaccid rump of the British Empire. You were the first king of the tabloid kingdom gallivanting across those tabloid isles with your carefully dishevelled hair, cut and paste pretend charisma and thumbs up fake optimism. You were Churchill of a sort!
Boorish it seemed that to be the king of all that you surveyed you just had to be the clown prince.
A political vacuum. All ambition and no genuine ideology.
There was your forced buffoonery and that photo opportunity politics that must die out if we ever get out of this virus mess. That braying sense of humour and oikish semi jokes. There you were King Oafish the First, Ethelred the Unready, Harold the fool, Alfonso ‘The Slobber’ King Of Leon or Ivaylo ‘The Cabbage’ Tzar Of Bulgaria, dancing in front of your puppet master – the acid faced, emotionless, empathy bypass of the unelected Dominic ‘taking back control’ Cummins and the other evil elves of the 21st Carry On England.
Your guffawing picture postcard, thumbs up presence and gurning bake off fake optimism was whelped out to charm the masses who mistook you as a portly messiah. And you were not even a very naughty boy.
Of course in the claustrophobic cart crash of contemporary Blighty it was your destiny to be prime minister. A destiny denied to 99.9 per cent of the country, not because they don’t have the capability or the ideas, but because they don’t have the background and the money.
Your triple alpha male bumptious behaviour, that farting in the face of the bullied and downtrodden lessers, that pissing in the pot plants at whatever public school you ponced around in was your training, that burning fifty pound notes in the faces of people trapped on the streets by a poverty you could never comprehend stood you in perfect stead, that loving the Clash whilst swerving the point of what Strummer and Jones were trying to say, that easy life of fooling about and shouting seventies style racist jokes at your braying ninny chums was all you needed to be PM.
Boorish, normally you would have got away with it.
Got away with the Brexit bus lie, got away with fibbing about the 350 million, got away with blagging you knew or cared about anything in the country, got away with your shitty jokes, shitter sense of humour and stupid patented carefully deconstructed personae that was helped along by the dinner party TV in crowd shenanigans of Have I Got News For You who first promoted your ‘loveable ‘ brand on the TV.
You would have got away with everything to live out your Churchillian wank fantasy of being the big man surveying the magic kingdom from your exclusive portholes, getting away with no ideals, no manifesto and no ideas because your own DNA twin Donald Trump was ever worse.
You were the pound shop Trump, the mini me to his maximum I and you would sit next to him at state occasions like the wheezing halfwit mate of the school bully. You would have got away with it if nothing serious had happened but, a bit like your dysfunctional twin Trump, you were found wanting by the biggest disaster to reach these shores since the second world war and no amount of clarion calls for ‘war spirit’ and fuzzy black and white photos of the forties is ever going to make anyone feel any better.
Boorish – the shit hit the fan.
You were found out.