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,
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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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 Image
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
Read 8 tweets
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
Read 10 tweets
16 Sep
Goveller’s Travels

Wednesday 16th September

I ran as fast as I could, but could see little, the corn rising forty feet and trees so lofty I could make no computation of their altitude. I was endeavouring to find shelter when I discovered a colossal man advancing, a Rees-Mogg
as tall as an ordinary spire steeple, with thirty grouse shooting Tory donors. I hid myself in a pile of redundant manifestos and heard this tofflofty speak many degrees louder than a Mike Fabricant anecdote ‘Perficite exitus Britanniarum’, I believe Get Brexit Done. Although
it may also mean ‘Achieve the destruction of the regions of Britain’. This summoned forth lobby-fodder runts Lee Anderson, Andrea Jenkyns, Dehenna Davison and Ben Bradley. The tweedy grandees sneered and sniggered at these forelock tugging frothers, which might have elicited
Read 12 tweets

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