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.
• • •
Missing some Tweet in this thread? You can try to
force a refresh
’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.