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
at dinner parties; so I jogged fifty feet to the farther end of the table, next to where they were keeping Chris Whitty and Patrick Vallance on a hamster wheel that powered Grant Shapps’s six-pack ab toning belt; The cat did approach, but as I have been told that discovering
fear before a fierce animal is a certain way to make it attack you, I resolved instead to remove my clothes, daub myself in Marmite, and like the great Mel Gibson in Marlowe’s Braveheart, charge it while shouting “Freeeeeedom”, which discomposed the creature somewhat. At this
juncture we heard a Lambretta pull up outside and the door flung open to reveal Boris shouting “Itsa mee, Mario” with special branch behind, carrying several boxes of Italian pizza. A nanny came in to greet him, with one of his children in her arms which spied me and began
a squall you might have heard from London to Perugia, after the usual oratory of infants to get me for a plaything. Boris put me towards the child, who seized me by the middle, and got my head into his mouth, where I roared so loud that the urchin was frighted and let me drop,
and I should infallibly have broke my neck, if Kay Burley had not launched her giant hand through the window and caught me, saying “Michael it’s time for your interview”.
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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.