YOU can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. And you can’t deliver a revitalised, youthful, radical Downing Street without sucking dick.
Yes, I’m embarrassed my blowjob’s all over social media. But everyone knows with Boris you’ve got two choices: go down or get impregnated.
It was way too early for that. He was still married, and he’s got a dismal track record of making honest women of his out-of-wedlock babymammas. But, long-term, that blowjob worked out.
If it hadn’t been for my sacrifice he’d be nowhere near number 10. Without my injection of verve and relatability into his leadership camp he’d have been wiped up by Hunt.
And how could he stand there and attack Starmer as an Islington lawyer when he was married to one? The dead wood needed clearing. And so, selflessly, for the people of Britain, I knelt down and did what needed to be done.
Of course he loves getting his dick sucked. Big Dog’s never happier than when he’s getting all of the pleasure and doing none of the work. And his firm anti-contraception stance means it’s the only way you’re getting out unfertilised. Even that cow Arcuri knew that.
Obviously I’d have preferred Gavin Williamson not to walk in at that precise moment, but he’s such a bitchy little gossip I knew the news would soon be all over Parliament, clearing my route to the top. He got his knighthood, so who’s complaining?
In a very real way, the bold, powerful Britain we live in today started then, on that couch, with that ejaculation. If I hadn’t seized the initiative with both hands we might never have got our full Brexit. The people of this country owe me so much.
‘That’s all very well,’ he said, ‘but how come I never get one these days?’ ‘Because we’ve got two fucking kids,’ I said.
