By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who believes democracy has failed and it’s time to move on
WILL they not stop? Is no humilation enough until Boris is a tramp on the streets going through the bins for supper?
Today’s privileges committee report is just the final kick to the ribs from the jackbooted guards who’ve spent months working him over, demanding a confession.
First they took his dignity, making him apologise for parties which were work events, did not take place, should have been legal anyway and everyone was doing the same. Need I say cake? In a room?
Then they took his job. The role he was born to. The greatest prime minister of this or any other era, defenestrated and jeered out of Downing Street, smeared in human dung.
And now they’ve taken his very livelihood. A kangaroo court of methamphetamine-crazed vultures, nudists and old-school Soviets tortured him, tattooed ‘arsehole’ on his forehead, forced a live squirrel between his buttocks and beat his tits with a wooden ruler.
On Monday, the Commons will vote. They will vote on whether Boris Johnson should be exiled to an uninhabited Atlantic islet or whether he is to be flayed alive, rolled in salt, set on fire and dismembered by wild, irradiated dogs. And I fear they’ll vote for the latter.
Their vindictive vengeance is driven by their own inadequacy, the inescapable knowledge that none of them could handle a pandemic with Johnson’s grace, aplomb and savoir faire. They will castrate him, blind him and cut out his tongue.
Why? Not Partygate, which never existed except in the deranged minds of the Westminster bubble. No, this is all retribution for a single crime: Brexit.
Why else? Why else would Boris be decapitated, live on The One Show, while Alex Scott catches his head in a little basket? Because he refuses to recant his foundational belief.
Boris, like Jesus, suffers for us. For the 52 per cent. For those who dared to dream. He is the Brexit martyr that they will never, ever break.
Do what you like to Boris. Turn him inside out. Extinguish his line. Fire him into the sun. Put a firework up his cock if you must. He’ll still be Britain’s hero.
