BORIS: The Nation flinches.
No lie is too big, no tale is too tall, but to complement America’s liar in chief, the UK now has its own premier bullshitter.
Today, at approximately 3.00pm BST, experts around the world stood back in amazement and asked, “How did it come to this?” The United Kingdom, a group of nations with a mighty history and a catalogue of world-beating leaders, has let a group of old white fascists put an idiot in charge. To paraphrase Orson Welles, we have everything to be afraid of, especially fear itself.
Fat finger fucker
Ten years ago, the prospects of this old Etonian bumbler assuming the highest mantle of power seemed as far-fetched as Northern Rock’s claims of solvency. Yet today, on the 24th day of the seventh month in the year 2019 AD, the impossible came true. Boris Johnson, the man who put the fool in tomfoolery, is the UK’s new PM. He now has his greasy fingers on the nuclear codes.
As news of the catastrophe reached the great unwashed, reactions were as varied as the vomit outside a Balti house on a Friday night. In London, a city that voted against Brexit and has a Labour party mayor, the consensus was disbelief. By contrast, in Birmingham, where the populace voted for Brexit 97% to 3% and proudly stand to get hammered by the hardest of exits, the Plebs were uttering cries of ‘Nando’s all round’. Not since the Civil War has the nation been as divided.
Toads of Fuck Hall
Meanwhile, as the country reeled, stock markets tanked, the pound fell to US$0.23 and businesses prepared to be fucked, toadies were circling Johnson seeking a job.
First up was Michael Gove, once a rival for the leadership and now a fervent follower of Borismania. With an eye on a plum cabinet position, he was spotted slipping into No. 10 by a back door to offer his own personal back door to the new messiah. Close behind him were Dominic Raab, Andrea Leadsom, Matt Hancock and some guy who once removed soggy condoms from the former Foreign Secretary’s limousine. Observers mused that this cluster of fucks were about as useless as a chocolate tea set, only twice as thick.
As Johnson settled in at No.10 and ordered hot totty, more astute watchers considered likely next moves. With Johnson’s chances of a no-deal Brexit lower than nil, a rabid set of Brexiteers on one side and a dead-eyed group of Remainers on the other, his chances of survival look slim. Having made a career of promising everything to anyone if it would get him elected, Johnson now seems stuck between a rock in the balls and a soul crushing Brexit. Before Johnson could even unpack, bookmakers at Ladbrokes were posting odds of a vote of no confidence in the next four weeks at 6 to 1 against.
The next few weeks look likely to be the biggest test of the nation’s fortitude since Chris Waddle’s miss in the 1990 World Cup penalty shoot-out against Germany. Can the UK hang on? Will Scotland dig a three miles wide trench between England and itself? How hard will the recession be? Can Johnson tell more lies in a day than Trump? The questions are endless. Stay tuned to RFN for the answers as they saunter in.
PS: Ladies, don’t forget to lock your bedroom door after dark.
There’s a Boris about.