Boris Johnson's great, great, great grandmother tipped for election!


Boris Brexit was confronted by an unusual spectacle. His grandma, many times removed, had been dug up in a church, in Switzerland. An unflattering photo of her mummified skull, alongside his noggin, was in the newspapers. He couldn’t help noticing a remarkable resemblance. She was a bit the worse for wear, a sprightly old bird for 295, but she looked fresher than some of the current Tory crew, and would probably have a better chance of getting in at the next election.

Boris had other things on his mind. The President of Germany called him “a pathological liar”. A bit strong, Boris thought, problem was the Kraut wasn’t the only one. Several other European characters had been taking exception to Boris’s way of taking liberties with the actualité. Normally he wouldn’t give a toss but it turned out these EU chaps had a lot of sway over the final shape of Brexit. He hadn’t seen that one coming. The boss was getting irate at constantly having to defend his honour, or what remained of it, when she wanted to talk about a deep and special relationship.

Boris had to resort to asking his Pa to put in a good word for him in Brussels. Nobody liked him there, he couldn’t understand why. OK, so he called them all Nazis and he’d been telling lies about the Europeans for years, why couldn’t they show a sense of humour? A chap has to earn a crust somehow and if telling porkies about Europeans is what’s required pour mettre du pain sur la table, then so be it. He was on his way to cabinet when he noticed, yet again, a lingering smell of smoke coming from his nether regions. What was it, like something burning? He had a swift look around his ample undercarriage but could see nothing unusual. Trousers need cleaning, again, he thought. He hurried indoors and took his place, last, at the cabinet table.

Cabinet meetings weren’t as much fun as they used to be. Nobody laughed at his jokes any more. People stared at him accusingly. Madame Rudd had the steely glare of an assassin, directly across the table. What’s her problem? Just because he fancied his chances at the Christmas party a few years back. He thought she was up for it, after a few vinos but, instead, she walloped him with her handbag, or was a clenched fist? She packed a mighty punch. Mental note; tough bird, don’t try that again! He noticed Gove & David Brexit glancing at him, nervously. They had a frightened, beaten look, like men who knew the game was up. Liam Brexit was as clueless as ever, talking about exciting new trade deals with nomadic tribes in the African rift valley. “There’s a big demand for coloured blankets and second hand mobile phones among the Masai warriors” he said. What was he on about? Everyone looked away, too embarrassed to intervene, hoping he’d get the hint and shut up.

Mrs Mayhem was anxious, reluctant to mention the B subject. Things weren’t going well. Madame Merkel wouldn’t play ball, in fact she just shrugged and laughed whenever the PM asked her about the deal. “Vat Deal, liebchen?” Mutti would ask, with a broad smile, in that deadly – kindly expression of hers, sizing up Mrs Mayhem with the manner of a psychiatrist about to have a particularly troublesome patient sectioned. Boris said a few words about Frère Macron who had been over for a glad-handing session, shifty bugger. He was all smiles as he looked around, making a mental list of the silverware, in case there was anything worth bidding on when HMG would have to sell stuff to pay off the national debt, which was about to explode because of the B thing that dare not speak its name. Boris reported on his meeting with the American Sec of State who kept looking at him suspiciously, while sounding reassuring, as if he was wondering if Boris was trying to outdo his boss in the stupid stakes. Mrs M called on Spreadsheet Phil who spread a pile of numbered documents around the table. Everyone’s heart sank when he did that. You just know it’s bad news when Phil wheels out the numbers, better to shut up and don’t display your ignorance. The atmosphere had certainly changed.

Boris recalled some of his greatest journalistic hits “Brussels to ban prawn cocktails”, “EU to ban barmaids’ cleavage” and his personal favourite “EU to ban Christmas”. He was once guaranteed laughs, and piles of dosh, with nonsense like this but the old tunes had gone out of style. It was all glumly serious as the Europeans presented the butcher’s bill for all the years of lies and abuse. Still, he hoped things might turn out alright. If he could steer Mrs Mayhem towards the exit just as the EU talks were about to collapse then he could emerge as the nation’s saviour in its hour of need, reconciling Blighty with our beloved EU partners. That would do it, slap on the old charm. The Tory backbenchers might take a bit of persuading but if it was a choice between holding onto a cushy seat or surrendering it to some sweaty socialist the old rules would apply; we have and we hold and bugger any stinking Trot who’d like to grab our birthright. After all, this Brexit lark was just another move in the great game. There were bigger things at stake, careers, houses and weekends in the country, waiting to entertain European guests who didn’t want to come over any more.

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