I see your smug haystack of a head as you walk out of the door, avoiding the journalists, practically whistling as you go. You’re absolutely ruddy chuffed, aren’t you? You’ve been poking our sentient Twiglet of a PM for months in the vain hope she’d finally snap and fire you but it never quite happened. Instead she pulled you ever closer to taking responsibility for the honking great turd you laid on the country’s doorstep. But now? Now you get to run away from it like the craven opportunist you are, insisting that it’s your nonexistent morals that have driven you to your decision. You and David Davis are the heroes in all this, the martyrs for the noble cause of Brexit. The only decent thing to do is to step back from all of it and wait for your next opportunity to save both the day and your grubby little political career.
And sit back you have, haven’t you? It’s only been a week and the country is already distracted. Trump’s come charging through like an orange bull covered in wind chimes and made so much noise that there’s not a single head left turned in your direction. His timing is nothing if not impeccable, even taking a moment out of his busy day of undermining May to heap praise on you. Presumably that was because he’s got a real eye for terminal incompetence from morons that last five minutes in whichever job he decides they’re suited for. His visit was such a monumental waste of everybody’s time and resources that I’m surprised Chris Grayling didn’t instantly hand him a rail franchise to run.
The only person it benefitted at all was you, Boris Johnson. A nice little orange feather in your cap, acknowledgement that you’re a proud and principled nationalist just like him. What better way is there to stick up for Britain than by acting as a grovelling bootlick to the American president by name-checking him whenever you get the chance? He thinks you’d make a great prime minister, and what a pleasing world that would be for the Brexiteers – we wouldn’t be the vassal state of the EU, but an extension of Trump’s America. A bit like Puerto Rico – just look at all the love and respect he’s shown them! It must have cheered you right up, Boris Johnson, vindicating you for all of your shitty decisions. You’re free now, free to walk away and re-emerge triumphant, rather than looking like just another twat fleeing a stinking shit.
Fuck that, Boris Johnson. Fuck that, fuck you and fuck the horse you’ve tried to creep away on.
Do you really believe for one second that any one of us is going to let the country forget the fact that everyone responsible for Brexit is now desperate to run to the hills away from it? May’s Chequers compromise may be a regurgitated dog’s breakfast but not you, not Davis, not Rees-Mogg, not Farage or anyone else has ever suggested anything that ever vaguely resembles a viable alternative. It just isn’t possible to fulfil the ludicrous promises made by the cul-de-sac of lying shithouses on the Leave side. The EU simply doesn’t function or bend that way without contradicting and fracturing itself and to expect it to do so is pure fantasy. None of you twats have the guts to advocate outright for a no-deal Brexit because you know the economic disaster it would bring, but you’re happy to derail whatever pitiful progress is ever made so that we end up crashing out that way without you having to take direct responsibility for it. It is a shameful farce, a power play by millionaire establishment figureheads posing as everymen whilst gambling with the future of the country. David Davis thinks May hasn’t done a good enough job? She hasn’t, but who the fuck is he to talk? He’s been sat with his thumb up his arse for so long that now every time he farts his ears pop.
It’s no wonder Trump admires you, Boris Johnson. You’re a grifter and a conman just like him, just with a posher accent and a less convincing haircut.
I see you, Boris Johnson, yawning and rubbing your eyes as you approach the bed. I see you carefully step over Piers Morgan, a good boy who’s spent all day on his master’s lap, a good boy who now lies who lies asleep at the bed’s end, his tail thumping against the thick carpet. I see you pull back the purple duvet, taking a moment to appreciate its luxurious feel between your fingers. I see you climb in, snuggling down, sighing blissfully and turning on to your side to smile at the back of Nigel Farage’s head. On the other side of him I see Trump, the third man in the enormous four-poster, the one who now reaches for the bedside table and tugs on the tiny gilded chain that hangs from the ceiling.
I see you roll on to your back, Boris Johnson, confused that the light didn’t go out with the click. I hear Farage snoring gently, muttering about James O’Brien in his sleep. I see Trump rub his hands together, his eyes wide and expectant, and I see you grimace as you notice the thousands of tiny nozzles built into the canopy of the bed. I hear the pipes rumbling just before the room explodes in rain, the acrid stench of piss billowing out into every corner. I hear Trump laughing hysterically, and I hear you retch as you frantically retreat under the duvet.
Bad luck, Boris Johnson. You knew full well what happens in this bed before you decided to climb into it. You knew full well, and you don’t deserve one iota of our pity.
I see you, Boris Johnson. I fucking see you.