I NEVER thought it would end like this. In my head, after I’d led Britain roaring back to imperial glory, I have to quit because I’ve been caught f**king someone.
That’s how it played out in my head. I’m on the podium, announcing that Ireland is now Britain again to the cheers of millions, and then a nervous little aide’s plucking at my sleeve.
I ignore him, drinking in the adulation of the crowd. But he doesn’t go away. ‘Sir’, he says. ‘Prime minister. Sir, I’m afraid there’s bad news on the internet. And a video.’ The blood drains from my face.
I’m shown to the Whitehall situation room, where red-hot footage of myself in coitus with a young, beautiful woman who is not my wife is playing on a screen the size of a wall. ‘I’ve never even met her!’ I splutter. The Boris on the wall f**ks on.
Who is the woman? That changes. The wife of an oligarch, the daughter of a Cabinet minister, Margot Robbie or simply that Telegraph journalist with the unfeasibly posh name, Sophia Money-Coutts. Either way Big Dog’s been caught with his knob in it again.
After that it progresses quickly. I lie to the House. Another girl comes out. I’m facing a no-confidence vote. A third girl appears with my ninth baby. The government collapses and divorce papers are filed. I resign in disgrace.
But crucially, for the right reason. Not for some stupid party. For what was always fated to bring Boris down: his unquenchable lust. I would go out as the cocksman prime minister I always knew I could be.
So I ask my fellow MPs: hang on. I’ll ride out inflation and the local elections. Once I’m exposed hanging out the back of Lady Kitty Spencer, send your letters in. Once the Johnson’s gone out a hero.
