Boris Johnson’s political career has been found mauled and dying outside Number ten.
The Prime Minister woke up this morning on the sofa where Carrie Symonds makes him sleep. As his dreams faded into nothingness he remembered yesterday’s events and cursed.
He’d lost his majority, lost control of the House, lost the initiative.
He knew he should probably get up but his body was under attack from all four elements: his mouth sand, his eyes water, his bladder fire. As for the wind…
Groaning, he lifted his head and squinted against the sunlight streaming through the curtains. He made the daily promise to himself never to drink again. His instinct, as ever these days, was to stay exactly where he was and not worry about getting up and finding a way to occupy his time.
Boris closed his eyes again, the self-pity of the previous evening replaced with shame and self-loathing. It was, he supposed, a daily routine of sorts.
Come on old chap, he told himself – you still have a country to run.
He shuffled past the master bedroom where Carrie was snoring peacefully and into the kitchen. As he was pouring out his Coco Pops he heard a scratching at the back door.
It was Larry the cat – and he’d left Boris a little present.
The Prime Minister gazed down at the remains of his political career. Broken and twitching, with a little bit of intestine hanging out, it was somehow still alive.
He reminded himself that he was Boris Johnson. The country would go to the polls and it would vote for him.
After all, people voted for Brexit – they were fucking idiots.
Boris closed the back door and went to get dressed.
Larry the cat smirked. He knew this game well – Johnson’s career was only still alive so it could be toyed with some more.
Before finally being finished off for good.