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,
as you would a rat, or delingpole. Therese Coffey shouted ‘stamp on the fucker I’ve got tenants to evict’ but luckily an Olympian Matt Hancock ventured to take me between his fore-finger and thumb to behold my shape more perfectly. I resolved not to struggle as he held me
above sixty feet from the ground, although he grievously pinched my sides which most unsettled that morning’s victual of Sugar Puffs made with Monster. I ventured to place my hands in a supplicating posture and squeaked “I’m a little Michael Gove, do me no harm, the hopes
of a generation of racist pensioners are laid in me”, apprehending every moment that he would dash me against the ground, as any Tory would do a kitten, puppy, duckling or constituent he had a mind to destroy. But my good star would have it, that he appeared pleased with me,
and looked upon me as a curiosity, much wondering to hear me pronounce articulate words like “Lets', 'go” and “WTO”. Convinced I must be a rational creature he spoke; “I’m Matt Hancock, but my friends call me the Wet Nurse”. The sound of his voice pierced my ears like that
of Sarah’s Kawasaki Ninja or Rishi after two WKDs, and caked me in his mouth spaff. He cleaned me with an earwax encrusted cotton bud from his pocket and called Liz Truss to show me her; but she screamed as people do at the sight of toads and Bill Cash. At this time, we saw
on the horizon Angela Rayner twenty ‘Edstones’ high. Dominic Raab shouted ‘Scrutiny! Hide!’ and the Tufton of Tories hid in a frenzy of world-beating cowardice. Lifting up the lappet of his coat Hancock put me in, and there, I found myself face to face: with another Michael Gove.
Many thanks to @Michelangela75 for locating this original work of colossal Tories!
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’Twas the night before Sunak, when all thro' the House,
Not a Gullis was stirring, not even a mouse;
Order papers were hung by the Speaker’s own chair,
In hopes that Asylum Bill soon would be there;
🧵
The Tories were huddled, immersed in their threads,
While visions of boat people danc'd in their heads,
Suella in her 'kerchief, Jenrick with his stab,
Had just settled our brains for debating crap –
When out on the Green there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bench to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.
Moon shone on the Press, in Rwanda’s shit show,
Gave lustre of day on objections below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
7am - Breakfast of Sugar Puffs made with a can of Monster
7.05am - Count and remove the nine bagged dogshits local youths posted through my letterbox last night
7.06am - Convene Star Chamber of Rayleigh and Wickford Neighbourhood Watch
🧵👇
8.15am - Star Chamber conclude that plan to deport local delinquents to Leyton is full of holes
9am - Open door and step in the pork pie I left on my doorstep for the unknown soldier last night
9.05am - change my Bertulli elevator heel shoes for pair of combat boots
9.10am - Climb into my ice white Range Rover Evoque with appearance package, put the Dambusters March on the integrated Bose sound system, and head for Westminster
11am - Arrive Whitehall in 1hr 50. Only three road rages, two Ginsters stops and a dislodged cyclist. A good run
Has spent the last decade trying to infiltrate and restructure the RNLI so that they will only launch for people with 98% Saxon DNA.
He makes a supplementary income from an illegal puppy farm.
Robert Jenrick
Retrained as a painter and decorator, specialising in making childcare facilities for vulnerable youngsters as foreboding as possible.
Jacob Rees-Mogg
Died in a freak Tridentine Mass accident when one of the black silage polybags of gold florins he insisted his hedge fund dividends were paid out in was struck by an incense thurible and landed on his head.
It has been a decade since the Conservative Party imploded at the 2024 general election (now you feel old), and you'll never guess what Boris's babies have been up to since the franchise ended!
Scroll down to find out...
Therese Coffey
Since losing her seat, the former environment secretary has been keeping busy with her pop-up abattoir, roaming provincial city-centres armed with nothing but a bolt gun and an packed trailer of distressed livestock.
Jonathan Gullis
After a stint as Kidsgrove’s lollypop man (sacked for bellowing at dawdling children), the ex-Stoke North MP found his true vocation in pest control. “I can read a cockroach” he said after winning Rentokil’s coveted July 2015 Exterminator of The Month award.