Goveller’s Travels

Monday 14th September 1727

We had not travelled twenty leagues on the RMS Brexcusitania when Captain Johnson slipped into a coma after a freak getting dressed accident involving clothes. The ensuing mouth-to-sloth CPR went on so long, boatswain
Nicholas Soames got fed up and shot the ship’s cat Brandon Lewis. This would not have been notable, had the delingpole situation on board not spiralled out of control, the malignant pests multiplying like bacteria in the absence of apex predator Lewis.
They soon began carrying away our food: quarter-master Therese Coffey’s victuals of peri-peri slow worms, mallard foie-gras, pickled thrush eggs and wine gums were all despatched, as were my Lilliputian sheep, their bones found later in Jacob Rees-Mogg’s giant cobweb hammock,
picked clean from the flesh. Bareknuckle boxing champion and evangelical life-coach Steve ‘three socks’ Baker suggested we acquire more provisions by commandeering a foreign ship, which certain cowards like Geoffrey Cox balked at; Luckily, no win no fee Attorney General
Suella Braverman, having resisted attempts by head-hunters to lure her into a career mowing the grass around remote phone boxes, was still aboard and she produced a definitive piece of paper which stated that such an action would actually strengthen international law and would be
the fault of the other vessel for not being British. That her paper appeared to be the warranty for a Hotpoint washer-dryer, I chose not to say, lest I upset a vessel full of supperless Tories. We soon sighted a European super-trawler, its hull full of English fish
shouting ‘Cor, get orf us guvnor’, ‘I’m a cockney ‘addock’ and ‘Honestly, you wouldn’t recognise Bethnal Green no more’, but before we could seize her we were wracked, on what we first thought were rocks, but later discovered was the border in the Irish sea. Washing up in
Fishguard, we were detained by local Welsh women in red dresses with stovepipe hats who took us for devils. We explained we were but humble Tories and they replied ‘that’s what we said bach’ and put us on a show trial, sentencing us to death by Bassey. Thankfully local
leisure suite owner Steven ‘Crabbmeister’ Crabb, in naught but a velvet dressing gown and gold medallion, with several Edwina Curry lookalikes on his arms, intervened and reckoned for our freedom, on the proviso we destroy the Welsh farming sector by Christmas. Thus freed,
I completed several media appearances on the BBC and Sky, showing my integrity to many persons of quality and others by failing to answer a single question, diverting the attention always, and telling outright lies, whilst all the time oozing charisma (the silver trail I leave
behind me). I stayed but a week with my wife, for my insatiable desire not to listen to her bend my earholes about the urgent jobs around the house would suffer me to continue no longer. With tears on no sides, I took leave, on board the HMS Mephistopheles, bound for Hull.
With thanks to @Michelangela75 for locating this superb picture from the archive.

And apologies to
@BrandonLewis @SuellaBraverman @SCrabbPembs @stevebakerHW @jamesdelingpole @dickdelingpole for being unable to tag you all.

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More from @mikegove12

24 Sep
An extract from The Tempest.

ACT V. SCENE I. Before PROSPERO'S Kentish cell.

Ye elves of Bills, trucks, standing queues and Goves,
And ye that on Kent’s edge with printless tyre
Do await permits to continue trade
That was already free; you hauliers that

1/5
By moonshine do the Swanley ring-roads block,
Whereof the Stobart frights; and you whose pastime
Is to make Serco profits, that rejoice
In tender-less processes; by whose aid,
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd
Democracy, seen off rational minds,
And 'twixt the Dover strait and Kentish vault
Set roaring war: in the dread rattling blunder
Have I given fire and rifted Gove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the Ashford lorry park
Have I made quake and by Broadstairs, clogged up
Read 6 tweets
23 Sep
Goveller’s Travels

Wednesday 23rd September

My Master Gove and the Leviathan Johnson went to tell the citizens recently shamed into work during this Brobdingnag plague, that they now needed to stay home; He gave his maid Lady Truss strict charge of me and perceiving I was
disposed to sleep, my mistress covered me with a pair of Sweaty Betty super-sculpt leggings, larger and coarser than the mainsail of a man of war. I had the dream about the ninth circle of hell opening up at Frimley Green again which aggravated my sorrows and I awaked alone in
the vast bed, eight yards from the floor. Natural necessities required me to get down with great urgency, but while under these circumstances, two delingpoles crept up her Poldark duvet, and ran at me. One of them came up almost to my face, whereupon I drew out my backstabbing
Read 8 tweets
22 Sep
Goveller’s Travels

Tuesday 22nd September

It came to pass that the Tory colossi had gathered in Matt Hancock’s bedsit for a tender reveal party, a fad in this land of Brobdingnag whereby the recipients of vast sums of PPE gold – strictly limited to friends of the government –
were announced with the destruction of a pinata shaped like Edmund Burke’s head. But I was all the while preoccupied with the presence of Larry the Downing Street cat, stalking among the crusty tissues and discarded y-fronts on Hancock’s kitchen floor. A noise like
that of a dozen rasping George Galloways proceeded from the purring of that animal, who I computed to be three times larger than an ox, the fierceness of it’s countenance altogether unsettling, like the look Sarah gives me when I start talking Star Trek continuity issues
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21 Sep
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 Image
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
Read 10 tweets
18 Sep
Goveller’s Travels

Friday 18th September

It was a great strangeness being inside the lappet of a giant Matt Hancock’s coat. Not least because among the skittles, Panini stickers and expired condoms, there was another Michael Gove wearing naught but trunks fashioned from lint. Image
This was a wretched, puffy-eyed, haggard looking Gove, so I was pleased to see he was well. Yet he eyed me as if I wasn’t to be trusted, and hid from me, behind the corner of the Dime bar wrapper he was using as a duvet. “Hi Mike. What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Well thank you for asking me that question Michael” he replied “I believe I am a dimension hopper. In my own reality I volunteered to pilot a pandemic alleviating moonshot, but it had been organised by Chris Grayling, so I ended up not on the moon, but inside
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17 Sep
Goveller’s Travels

Thursday 17th September

I apprehended that I should be squashed to death by the feet of the grouse slayers, so screamed as loud as fear could make me, whereupon the motley of giant Tories trod short. Led by a Boris the size of an HS2 contractor’s pocket,
they were amazed to see a six inch Mike Gove. Their minds I later learned, were devoid of imagination, barren infertile plots, unable to visualise the difficulties of feeding a family on a pittance; conceive of helping people before they made mistakes; or, being unable to
comprehend motivations beyond their own, envisage that a dinghy-delivered immigrant could be intent on anything other than harm. They had been combing the island for covid tests, almost as rare as a Dodo Harding, and considered me with the caution of an animal that might bite,
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