Day One: tump, sorry, trump, flies to Florida, takes to deckchair on beach facing oncoming hurricane. “Anything that limey Canute can do, I can do betterly. I’ll hold back those waves.” Unaware that Canute tried this to show his stupid subjects that he couldn’t. Rescued from drowning by Clooless Clutz Clam. Loses hair, uses spare. Offers ffgarage job as ambassador to Pompeii. Pompeo pompeosly protests.
Day Two: Bolton moustache attacked by mice. NRA called in to exterminate with extreme language. Bozo under attack from, well, just about everybody, mobilises MI5, 6, 7, 8, 9 and Special Hotair Services, calls up the XXCCCLLIIIth Light House, Horse and Hearse. Emerges that he has not been briefed on any matters of national security. Heads of various MI’s explain: “He’s just too effin thick to understand. Next thing, he’d want to start looking for The Big Button.” Bozo declares whaaaaargh on Guardian.
Day Three: Cornwall in turmoil as very rare bird spotted. Brown Booby. Bozo hears of this; “phwooorgh, bird, brown boobie, that, that sounds like fun. Can she be, y’know, persuaded to come to my, ahhh, humble abode? Don’t tell Carrie.
Day Four: England draw Fourth Ashes test after four days of Manchester rain. Steve Smith had scored 2,763 not out. Rain stops Smith, play and umpires in their tracks. Test Match Special commentary team resorts to cake, cream tea, scones, four-hour debate on jam first or cream, reminiscences on everyone who ever played for England since 1874. Boycott says “Ah’ll orpen t’batting.” Hates scones, eats hat. Selects all-Yorkshire team for final test match. Offered peerage if he promisees to just shut up.
Day Five: Bozo deselects himself by failing to turn up at Henley Con Association meeting. I … I … I … I couldn’t haaaa find the way, forgot where it was, where, whaaarh where’s Henley again? I’m the MP there? He loses the way, the votes, the election, the exit, the windmills of his mind. Never mind, I … I … was haaaa, Prime Minister, wasn’t I? Was I? Declares that the right to freeze peach is under attack by the EU. Declares whaaaarh on The Guardian again. Thrown out of Chequers for not wearing something or other.
Day Six: Con Party, heavily bearing opposition, elects Sebastian Cholmondeley-Featherstonehaugh as leader. No-one knows, cares. Alastair Campbell permits himself amnesia, forgets that he was the Dominic Cummings-Goings-Doings of his day. Forgiven by all – he is on the side of the angels now. Incensed by Con and Lab Parties to such an extent that he blows up his pipes.
Day Seven: President Badsho Al Asshead demands that all Syrians now living in UK swear allegiance to him, or, or, he’ll do something. Syrians on Isle of Bute (no, really, there are – ed) throw hissy fit, and are heard to say, “By the sporran of Harry Lauder, we’ll no’ be gangin anywheare. Scawts wha-hay, Scawts ar we”. Eat bagpipes, play haggis, offer deep-fried goat-head all round, put irn-bru in car fuel tanks. Give thanks to Something or Other.
Day Eight: Bozo, from cave on Rockall, reminds everyone that he was, phwaaargh, best ever mayor of London ahhhh, twice. He invented Boris Bikes (no he didn’t), bendy buses (dangerous disasters, withdrawn), rescued 2012 Olympics single-handed (puh-lease, come on). Sends flowers to Ken Livingston every year to thank him for making it so easy to win. Twice.
And so forth …