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.