Thread by @mrhenrymorris

Goveller’s Travels

Monday 21st September

There was a ring at Hancock’s bedsit doorbell, chiming the theme from the A-Team louder than any cathedral peal. I advanced across the gigantic table with my inter-dimensional twin Michael Gove, and we craned our heads around a parish

church sized bottle of Sunny Delight. Dom Cummings entered, navigating a vast twin-pram over the empty kebab boxes and Lilt bottles full of piss in Matt's flat. Sat inside, 160 feet high to our 6, Boris Johnson, and I can still scarcely credit it, a giant Michael Gove! He

pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and gazed at we diminutive Goves in wonder; then took the universe-hopping one by his legs, dipped him in English Mustard, and bit off his shrieking head like he was a Dairylea Dunker. I trembled every limb as the gates of hell grew

visible in this giant Mikeyavellian’s cakehole. Tongues of fire danced on his lips, and his chews sounded like the tormented screams of a million fallen souls, his open-mouthed chomping revealing a hellish salsa of molten flesh, disembowelled organs, and pleading eyes,

a diabolical scene, neatly framed betwixt a patchwork of cheap iron fillings. I do consider, I could even seen that git Mephistopheles grinning at me from inside his nasal cavity, and I reflected that having sold my soul for a lifetime of damnation, it was a bit naff that

all I’d got out of it were some senior government positions, a couple of dull anecdotes, and the cold, penetrating loneliness that comes of being the sole cognitively functioning adult in Boris Johnson’s cabinet. Thankfully however, it was not to be my day of reckoning.

Massive Dom glassed giant Gove on the ear with a Nigel Mansell snow globe as would have felled even Eric Pickles, and with blood pouring from the trauma, he ordered the delinquent back to his pram. Knowing a Gove’s thought processes well, being one myself, I understood he might

owe me a spite, and remembering how mischievous we naturally are to butterflies, moths, swallows, sparrows, rabbits, badgers, kittens, puppies, boys, girls, men, women, friends, enemies and Chris Grayling, I fell on my knees, and gestured as well as I could that I desired he

might be pardoned. Giant Cummings, who I noticed for the first time was dressed in a Batman costume with a plastic six-pack, complied, and carried me to him in the pram, next to the mildly constipated and drooling Johnson. I went forth to my giant cousin, and kissed his hand.

And thank you to @Michelangela75 for venturing close enough to them, to capture this image from the gates of hell.