Goveller’s Travels
Monday 27th September
It began to be talked of in Brobdingnag, that my master had a strange conniving animal that went erect upon two legs, the finest limbs in the world, and a complexion fairer than Dr David Bull. A titanic Andrew Neil who lived
1/7
hard by came to inquire into the truth of this story, and I was placed upon a table to make my reverence to this out of work toupee model. The jaundiced behemoth put on his spectacles to behold me better; at which I could not forbear laughing very heartily, for his eyes appeared
like the full moon shining into a chamber at two windows. When my people discovered the cause of my mirth, they bore me company in laughing, at which the old fellow was fool enough to be out of countenance. He had the character of a great boorish measle, this Chairman of
a magazine whose output he had absolutely nothing to do with, and to my misfortune, he well deserved it, for pursuant to his advice, I was to be shown me as a sight upon a market-day in the next town. I was transported forth, terribly shaken and discomposed; for the horse
went about forty feet at every step and trotted so high that the agitation was equal to my gnawing Faustian guilt over Brexit. Although much less frequent. At the sign of the Track and Trace Arms I was placed upon a table near three hundred feet square and made to ponce before
silenced, vulgar and noxious dolts like Lawrence Fox, Paul Dacre and Charles Moore. Hundred-foot steeples of self-pity that brimmed with such resentment I almost began to feel good about myself; I was surprised nobody in Brobdingnag had asked them to run a political party,
hate-filled organ or national TV broadcaster, that by projecting their loathing they could have engendered equality by dragging everyone else down to their base, earth-vexing level. I was that day shown to twelve sets of company of this calibre and forced to act over the same
fopperies as if I was still in Boris’s cabinet. But my nurse Andrea Jenkyns fell a weeping. She said I had been promised me hers; but now worried Johnson meant to serve he, and me, as last year, when he pretended to give her a lamb, yet soon as it was fat, sold it to a butcher...
With many many thanks to @Michelangela75 for finding this scene from the Tavern.
*serve her
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