by Boris Johnson
OH NO, there’s dirty water lapping at the MDF of your flat-pack kitchen. Dear me, your dismal new-build hallway’s swimming in sh*t. Exactly why is that my problem?
You may remember me. I’m the prime minister. I won the election hands down. I’m in charge. Yes, very powerful.
But I’m not Cnut the Great, if you’ll forgive my OId Norse. I can neither turn back the tide nor part the waters. So why should I have to turn up to your bloody flood?
Where am I? Staying in a 115-room country mansion with my girlfriend, 25 years younger than I am, drinking a port that Churchill had laid down in 1943.
Do I fancy leaving that behind, strapping my wellies on and wading through filthy brown water to look at your pathetic house? Do I arse.
Let me just check, when’s the next election? End of 2024? And will any of these floods be remembered then? I very much suspect not.
It breaks my heart that all your IKEA furniture has been ruined and your library of Lee Child hardback first editions washed away with the tide. So tawdry and then the flood. I can’t bear to think about it.
Shut up, move to higher ground and do please bugger off. I’m busy. This country isn’t going to f**k over itself.
Yours, the prime minister.
