My week started off badly, but has since improved immeasurably. Some pharma company in Ecuador emailed me to say they can fix my potency problems, very cheaply. A lovely Nigerian wants to give me £6 million and all I have to do is send him my bank details. The algorithms that control my social media news feeds have decided that I’m a racist – Huzzah! Finally, on top of that, that nice Mr Jacob Tree-Frog and Bojo Johnson have Brexit firmly under control and a flashy new blue passport seems to be looming just over the horizon.

Jacob Tree-Frog is my kind of a guy: he has all the charisma of the ABBA tribute group I saw recently – a pair of Munchkin female singers in sparkly capes with dead, reptilian eyes, grinding through the semi-sexualised choreography of tired songs they have performed, with the same anaesthetised facial expressions, thousands of times before. The Munchkins were accompanied by two men with vacant grins, white suits and impossibly sculpted hair, tiredly miming to a perfectly mechanistic backing track on a cardboard guitar and plywood ‘grand piano’, their minds obviously still fixated on the pop-stardom that has so unfairly eluded them. Tree-Frog has that same cold lizard stare as he grinds his way through soundbites artfully created by software programs designed to produce words in a semblance of order that will appeal to a population deadened by bread and circuses, or ‘reality TV’ as it is known these days. His mind is also on the glittering prize: stepping into  a used pair of Theresa Mayfly’s oversized designer knickers – preferably with skid marks still intact.

Who could fail to be amused by Bojo Johnson’s humorous antics? An expert in commedia dell’arte who has obviously been trained by Jacques Lecoq and other master clowns, Bojo has tailored his hilarious appearance to perfection: he resembles an oleaginous barrel of lard, coated in a sticky saccharine syrup, his trademark crumpled white shirt only partially tucked into his ill-fitting trousers, looking like he has been fired from a circus cannon into a slightly damp haystack. Like all master clowns, he hides behind a facade of bathos – but you get the idea that there is serious cogitation taking place behind the buffoonery, as he patiently awaits an opportunity to custard-pie Theresa Mayfly in the face while simultaneously handing Jacob Tree-Frog an exploding cigar. He has embraced the dark side – shades of Heath Ledger’s Joker can be observed. The custard pie will probably contain a quick-acting nerve agent, while the cigar will not simply blacken Tree-Frog’s face, but will blow his head clean off his still palpitating body.

I have some advice for Bojo. Give up your day job! Forget Parliament! You are a masterful comedian who deserves more public appreciation than you will ever get for doing the undeserving job of Prime Minister. The great news is you can still carry on with your extreme right-wing views and your un-reconstructed racism, as everyone will think you are being ironic! Stardom awaits!

The wizened breasts of this wing of the Tory Party have run out of the milk of human kindness. They no longer reflexively lactate when they hear the cries of the undeserving poor. Mayfly’s high-fashion blouse may still show signs of those damp, slightly malodorous stains. As far as the Brexiteer right is concerned, the only damp stains resulting from the misery of the penurious is to be found on the front of Bojo and Tree-Frog’s trousers.


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