Thick skinned is one thing, bloody minded and insensitive, selfish, egotistical, misogynistic, many other long worded things and being an absolute fucker are many other dreadful traits it seems you need to be to become the current PM of our country.
After yesterdays big reveal, “The Sue Grey Report” was dropped, around elevenses, which is when all the cool kids are listening to the radio, and we (I count myself incorrectly to be one of the cool kids) sat transfixed wherever we were and waited for the excuses and what ever would follow, actually follow.
The report was pretty grim reading, the PM was bang to rights, the parties happened in his house after all, even though its a massive house one should have a handle on who is in there. This is where the London Met police come into their own, carefully keeping an eye on what was going on and who enters and leaves the seat of governmental power in the United Kingdom. During lockdown the clinking suitcases of wine were trundled in and a myriad of interior designers entered for vitally important matters of state, set to a backdrop of ABBA which as everyone knows is the best music to conduct special government business under, Chris Whitty said so on a Covid press conference i’m sure, or maybe he was just humming along to Chicquitita while Johnson blustered his way through another conference, telling folk to keep locked up while crossing his fingers under the lectern; Squibzies Mother fuckers.
We learnt that if you puke up at a clandestine Downing Street party its ok to vomit on the carpet and spray red wine on the walls because a poorly paid immigrant will clean it up by the morning, and once awake and coffee fuelled the next day the stains are gone and you can forget it ever happened.
“Ain’t immigrants Brilliant?”
I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those Dubiously Pleasant Tory Folk gave these type of jobs to fleeing Ukrainians, just what they’d want.
Sadly the Prime Ministerial machine is still going. The lies and lies keep on coming, the false sincerity spills forth like some awful haemorrhaging dysenteric anus, humilities issued forth with excessive insincere hubris, and the population look on aghast. As each question is answered or rather batted away, like one would swat a midge, the PM wishing for a Mosquito zapper to eliminate the irritants,
“I refer you to my previous answer” bored and weary of the incessant questioners, how dare they ask him these, don’t they know who he is? As the minutes pass, the television audience gets crosser and crosser and hated boils on the sofas and armchairs, kitchen tables, dark rooms, studios, bars, sports clubs and everywhere else. It is becoming evident that this mop haired Netto bag of Custard and rotten vegetables, is fast becoming the most hated man in Britain at this moment, and he neither seems to realise or to care.
“Fuck you lot, I’ve won, and what i’ve won doesn’t matter, but i’ve won.”
And therein lies the problem, he no longer cares for the country, if he ever did in the first place, all he cared about was ticking a box, winning, and getting to the top of what ever it is he’s playing at. I wish he’d fuck off, I wish he’d just be decent and think. But despite being a very clever man, he has no compassion for the past and little care for the future he’s creating, because by the time the future is here he’ll be long gone; Pissing in someone else’s soup.