How I got f**ked over by Boris for four years, by a Brexiter
FOR four years, Boris Johnson was everything to me. I adored him and believed all his wild promises. But now I realise I was just being used.
We’d been flirting for years through his Telegraph columns. I was flattered that an educated man able to quote Horace in Latin would give me, a Middlesbrough warehouse operative, the eye.
So when he first began to woo me directly, I was helpless to resist. It was all behind the Tory party’s back and felt thrillingly illicit. He even screwed me with his big red bus.
After the night of 23rd June, 2016, I thought we could finally be together. But instead he showed his cowardly side and let that bossy woman take everything we’d worked for.
Still I kept seeing him despite my qualms, and whenever he insulted a foreigner I knew it was his way of squeezing my thigh under a table.
So when he humiliated her so dreadfully she walked out, I saw my chance. I gave him my all, my body and soul, and let him do things to my Red Wall that nobody had done before.
And what happened? He f**ked me in the fisheries. He f**ked me in the piggeries. He f**ked me in the small exporters. He f**ked me in the Irish Sea. He let his best mate f**k me all the way to Durham.
He f**ked me every way a politician can f**k a voter. And now I know that he was the person everyone warned me about, all along.
Will I still vote for him in 2025? When he turns on that tousled charm, how can I resist?