Was it merely five weeks ago that Conservatives speculated the cabinet of ministers was the only possible answer to their problems, requests Guardian correspondent Marina Hyde

Why do people still call it a Tory ” split” on Europe? It’s not a split: it’s an episiotomy. The Tory episiotomy on Europe ran septic this week as Boris Johnson expelled 21 MPs , including two former chancellors and his hero Winston Churchill’s grandson; lost his fucking brother in a anecdote we’ll label Cain and Far More Able; and gave a speech so hallucinatorily bad it whiteyed a policeman. At the current rate, even Robert Caro will only need a week to write this Johnson biography.

Then again, Johnson might get a majority, and we’ll look back on these as the good old days. More on the future prospects of that banter-apocalypse later.

For now, it feels remarkable to think that barely five weeks ago, the vast majority of Tory MPs were telling us Boris Johnson was the only possible answer to various questions. It turns out those questions were:” How would Dudley Dursley and Draco Malfoy‘s newborn search and behave ?”,” What if you scraped the Honey Monster and placed him in a clothing for a court appearance ?” and” Do anyone know the ancient Greek for shitting the bed ?”.

Despite practising since boyhood, Boris Johnson’s entire demeanor is that of a person who has acquired a competition to lead the country for a period. He is Mike Bassett: England Prime Minister, yet rotates out jokes he’s done 437 meters before as though he’s Frank Sinatra and guess the crowd can’t wait to see him do My Way again. Johnson must be the only performer whose gathering spends his gigs screaming: Delight, DO YOUR NEW STUFF.

Physically, he seems in a remarkable territory. Apart from looking like he cuts his mane with the bacon scissors, the PM’s shtick is ludicrous and juddering, as though some of his innards are trying to escape. Perhaps they have found the tension between the bodily functions they are required to provide and the national interest unresolvable.

Oratorically, his PMQs debut deserves a merely five-word review:” Welcome to the Commons, bitch .” As a dispatch box artiste, Johnson has all the accomplishment of one of those pisshead chancers who go house to house at 10 pm in December and” chant sing” for tavern fund. His delivery was that of a human finding out in real age that substance which slayed at the accountancy corporate he did in 2007 is less well received by those who haven’t drunk themselves to within an hour of renal los. That is as much as 30% of the House of Commons. I’d give it a fortnight before Theresa May is motioning an ironic” WENGER IN” placard behind him.

As for his turns away from Westminster, Thursday afternoon spotted him at a Yorkshire police academy, where he appeared deeply baffled. He resembled a political Elvis- twilight years- who’d “mustve been” slapped awake on the tour bus by his director, committed some of his special medicine, and jostle on to greet the LA crowd with the words” Hello Philadelphia !” This, but in Wakefield.

Having exceedingly belatedly taken the stage, Johnson proceeded to die on his arse in front of rows of police officers. Does this technically weigh as a fatality in custody? Certainly, it bear all the hallmarks of such an occurrence, of which there have been 1,718 since 1990, with not a single sentence for assassinate or manslaughter. Which is to say: it was brutal and perturbing, it happened right in front of multiple police feign not to notice, and the victim was officially concluded to have done it to himself.( Thank you in advance to the Police Federation for their forthcoming notes on this paragraph. I’ll make time to to read them when I retire at 50 after three years on the sick .)

There is much discussion about what really ” cut through ” this week, with Johnson’s greatest shits collect targeted against such viral charms as a factual yet simultaneously car-crash delineation of Labour’s Brexit policy by Emily Thornberry on Question Time. It is quite something to be got the better of by fellow panellist Richard Tice, a sort of radicalised Damart catalogue model, but the shadow “foreign ministers ” finagled it.

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‘ Jesus Christ, Nanny: YOU HAD ONE JOB. Teach him some sorts, yes? Jacob Rees-Mogg is 50( FIFTY ). Is he even housebroken ?’ Photograph: HO/ AFP/ Getty Images

As for Jacob Rees-Mogg, the leader of the House of Commons, his insolent frontbench loll-about is still lighting up Facebook. I’m not get going full ad hominem on Nanny, who was probably only following orders, but I do think the time has come when we all have to ask: has anyone EVER done a worse enterprise and stayed in post longer? She’s still there! Jesus Christ, Nanny: YOU HAD ONE JOB. Teach him some demeanours, yes? Jacob Rees-Mogg is 50( FIFTY ). Is he even housebroken?

Then again, why expect more from a person who believes that even incestuously abused children should be forced to give birth, at the same time as his investment fund profits from sales of abortion pills? Asked about this hypocrisy once, Rees-Mogg declared gaily:” The world is not always what you want it to be .” You’re telling me, mate. Very much ditto. With the world as it is, we have to tolerate the spectacle of the chancellor of the Duchy of Gilead spreading his loins all over the frontbench and likening an NHS doctor who co-wrote official no-deal contingency plans to disgraced anti-vaxxer Andrew Wakefield. This last portion of breathe yobbery find Jacob humiliatingly ordered to apologise, presumably by Dominic Cummings( a husband widely conceived not to have completed the Norland Nanny training course ).

Perhaps it was terror of Cummings, then, that impeded Johnson from giving in to either fundamental human or political impulse, and assisting the faint policewoman in Wakefield. The PM chose instead to gibber out the last of his prepared wrinkles, and the reports duly extended with its statement of claim that he’d” rather be dead in a trench” than delay Brexit.

As for who would find his remains, it increasingly feels like a suit for Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman, the pair of cops in Se7en, a movie in which numerous people are ritually deadly sinned to extinction. A soul of numerous uncontrollable cravings, Boris Johnson has embodied each of the sins at points in his life, and this week it virtually felt as if he was being strapped in like the glutton and forced to prime minister himself to fatality. Had enough prime ministering hitherto, dear? I think you can equip simply a bit more prime ministering in, and a bit more, and a little bit more, and …[ Cut to kill of Pitt and Freeman battering down the door of No 10 and strangling into their handkerchiefs ].

Anyway, you get the idea with that one. I guess the major philosophical question facing some of us the coming week was: would it all be worth it? Would you take three years of political paralysis, a harmful public realm, bitternes kinfolk rows and no promise of even medium-term national healing merely to watch this one absolute monster reap his own whirlwind, live on telly, in a horrifyingly humorous cautionary fable about get everything you always missed? The react, of course, is no. Not even close. And he might still get a majority.

Having said all that … you’ve got to get your kicks somehow in these dark experiences, and if you can’t experience a good binfire, what’s really left? So grub another chair leg on the flares, take your excitement where you can, and try to get some rest before he takes a crack at next week.

* Marina Hyde is a Guardian columnist

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