Papers

It takes quite something for the Mail and the Telegraph, those organs of the ideological right wing, to act as flypaper to entrap a Conservative Prime Minister, but that is what they are in the process of doing to our pestilential leader. 

They were happy to give space to a report sent to Boris's father by his Master in College at Eton (when BoJo was 17) stating: Boris really has adopted a disgracefully cavalier attitude to his classical studies. It is a question of priorities, which most of his colleagues have no difficulty in sorting out. Boris sometimes seems affronted when criticised for what amounts to a gross failure of responsibility (and surprised at the same time that he was not appointed Captain of the School for next half). I think he honestly believes it is churlish of us not to regard him as an exception, one who should be free of the network of obligation which binds everyone else.

As the boy, so the man - cavalier, gross failure of responsibility, believes himself to be free of the network of obligations, narcissistic, lacking in morals and scruples. "Wait", you say. "Lacking morals and scruples?" Indeed, sacked - if you didn't know - by his newspaper, the Times, when he was a journalist in the late 1980s for fabricating (i.e. making stuff up, including supposed quotes). Some might call that lying. Oh, and sacked again, this time by the Leader of the Conservatives after he had become an MP in the early 1990s, for lying about an extra-marital affair.

"But he has competencies", you urge. "He was Foreign Secretary." Indeed he was, the worst in living memory according to insiders at the Foreign Office. Not the least of his many gaffes in the role was the ill-advised statement he made about Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe, which gave the Iranian government grounds for arresting and imprisoning her on a charge of espionage. She is still being held captive in Tehran five years on. When a leading FO diplomat was quizzed about Johnson he observed "...the thing you learn about Boris - everything is always about him." When pressed about Johnson as a possible PM he merely said "If he was not expected to run anything, it could work."

And so to Downing Street, with his last mistress now his wife, in a flat the cost of refurbishing which is still shrouded in confusion, and those lockdown busting parties which he said didn't happen. And if they did happen, he wasn't at them. And if he was at them, it was only once and for a few moments. And if it was more than once, they were work events with wine (a lot of it) and cheese (plenty of that). And never in his private flat, except on occasions. And never with people other than his immediate social bubble, though there is plenty of evidence to the contrary.

So the liar Boris Johnson, after weeks of winging it, has finally been served with papers by the Metropolitan Police asking him to account for his actions on a number of specified occasions in a number of specified locations to help them with their enquiries into how many times he broke the law - that is, rules his own government imposed upon the rest of us. I hope it will confirm how many lies upon lies Boris the Fly has peddled. May he never be allowed to escape the consequences.

Boris the Fly

My poem on topic...

Ambushed By Cake

(warning: may contain Nut-Nuts)

I didn't think it was a party, just another

work affair with cake and champagne.

Yes, there were thirty people there

including my wife and the woman

who's re-designing our flat. Am I 

paying for that? But I didn't think

it was a party. There were no strippers,

there was no cocaine, it was all very low-key.

All my affairs are always work affairs

with cake and champagne, just ask Carrie.

But I didn't think it was a party. I didn't think.

And now this. Those ridiculous headlines

in the press: Ambushed by Cake at Partygate.

The Telegraph and Mail for God's sake.

They're supposed to be on my side,

to have my back, the thankless hacks,

after all the work events they've been invited to!

At least it's clear it's not my fault. None of this.

I've seen those movies in which a hapless

mobster gets blown away by the gunman

hiding in the gateau - we have more class.

They all stood round me, smiling faces,

glasses raised, singing Happy Birthday

like I told everyone to do while washing their hands.

Is that what they were doing, metaphorically?

The ungrateful bastards, hoisting poor Boris

with his own petard. Have they no shame?

Did they forget I nearly died for them?

Fuck it! I lied to get here and I'll lie to stay.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)