(From "I see You")
I see you, Boris Johnson.
And so it ends. Don’t worry though - if there’s one thing your tenure has taught all of us, it’s how to treat your political opponents with respect and be magnanimous in victory. I won’t gloat at, or mock, your downfall. It brings me no pleasure whatsoever. In absolutely no way do I find it deeply satisfying to imagine you now sat on the toilet, gazing miserably at the portrait of Churchill on the opposite wall, as you consider just how spectacularly you have failed to draw even the palest of comparisons to your hero. It is not at all hilarious to me to know that deep down - behind that blustering shell of pathological narcissism and self-interest - lies the wounded little core of the Eton schoolboy bully, stunned at the complete rejection of his peers.
I feel absolutely no satisfaction whatsoever in knowing that despite the cheery, unrepentant demeanour, you're clearly still desperate to try and salvage something - anything -other than total humiliation from your pathetically embarrassing downfall. It brings me no joy at all to snigger at the idea that you know full well that we all know you’re only clinging on so that you can claim to have been Prime Minister for a few days more than Theresa May. And I can assure you, it is in absolutely no way thoroughly tickling me to know that the man who honestly thought he’d end up being comparable to Churchill now has to disgrace himself with an excruciating period of demeaning lame duck powerlessness, just to hit even that pathetic benchmark.
Just kidding! Obviously it’s hilarious. The mendacious, corrupt, pompous blowhard who has so disgraced both his office and this country dug his fingernails into the gold wallpaper and now has to be shucked out of Number 10 like the rancid, salmonella-riddled oyster he’s always been. And it’s entirely his own fault! That you’re leaving with such a spectacular lack of dignity and humility underlines just how completely unsuited to any position of responsibility you were in the first place. No apology, no mention of the appalling decision to reward predatory behaviour that earned you your lectern moment in the first place, and no remorse whatsoever. Sleaze means leave, Boris Johnson. Even for you, eventually.
The circus trundles on without you, despite your best attempts to burn the big top down on your way out. We’re left with a desperate sifting of the litter tray you’ve reduced the Tory party to in search of a slightly more palatable nugget of brick than all the others. What a laughable insult it is for any of your enablers and apologists to think they deserve to rise to the top, like the scum on the surface of a chemical toilet, after spending three years propping up your disgraceful leadership. The list so far is like a game of Guess Who, a host of embarrassing caricatures, where every single one of them topples with the single question “Are you a useless prick?”
The whole thing is a sick joke, punctured only occasionally by a moment of delusion or self-awareness so hilarious that it brings some levity to proceedings. I mean seriously, imagine being Michael Gove, a man who once harboured leadership ambitions himself, now unable to even participate in the pile-on without somehow ending up completely humiliated. Then there’s Dominic Raab, the unblinking mannequin who once insisted he’d only accept a reshuffle move if he could become Deputy Prime Minister, now visibly terrified at the prospect of actually going for the proper job. If only he could have withdrawn from Afghanistan so effectively. Ben Wallace, despite being an initial favourite, seems instead to have recognised the importance of having a defence secretary with a shred or two of competence at a time of international crisis. That genuine commitment to actual public service obviously isn’t the sort of thing we can expect from the next Tory leader, so he’s out.
To say we’re left with the dregs is an insult to dregs everywhere. Rishi Sunak thinks he’s the only one who can save the economy? It’s like the kid from American Pie applying to look after our bakery. Nadhim Zahawi has already had to deny that his tax affairs are under investigation, a flying start for any chancellor even when they don't have form for robbing the taxpayer just to keep their horses warm. Steve Baker might have Suella Braverman’s back but there isn’t a single chin between them. Both she and Kemi Badenoch think the solution to three years of vacuous culture war nonsense is to ramp the artillery up to 11. Their war on woke must be working, because if either of them honestly thinks they’re in with a shot, they must be fudging dreaming.
The only place Grant Shapps will ever be Prime Minister is on Wikipedia before his edits get moderated. Sajid Javid - the only man with a charisma vacuum so powerful that even Boris Johnson doesn’t want it sucking him off in the office - thinks he’s the one to revitalise the country, despite being the bloke who’s overseen the most demoralised and exhausted NHS in decades.
Liz Truss can’t even smile for the camera in her publicity photos, she gets that angry at the mention of cheese. Jeremy Hunt thinks being on the outside of Johnson’s inner circle will make us forget he was the diseased prostate at the very centre of David Cameron’s. Penny Mordaunt chose to launch her campaign with a glossy video highlighting the career achievements of her favourite foreign murderer, which is a decidedly weird flex for a Tory. And then there’s Tom Who’sthattaco, trying to creep up on the outside by sheer virtue of having absolutely no name recognition whatsoever.
What a buffet cart of worthless dogbrick you’ve left us with, Boris Johnson. And yet somehow, it’s still a relief to get you gone; like shredding your urethra to pieces to pass a kidney stone that could have killed you.
I see you, Boris Johnson. I fudging see you.
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