DISASTER CHRONICLES, CHAPTER WHATEVER

Today: Bozo travelling. Anywhere, everywhere. Paris, Rome, Luxembourg (Luxembourg?) Moscow, Paris again (likes Paris) Los Angeles, Inukjuak (look it up) Harare, why not. Big beds in Embassies everywhere. No business to transact, just loves the gig. Chauffeured cars, police motorbikes, private ‘planes, ‘copters, rockets, possibly. Knows it can’t last so what the hell. See sights while he can, for free. I, I, I absolutely deny haaa, everything, of course I do, of course I phawwwargh don’t lie. Who says I do? I’ll phwaaargh sue them. I’ll, haa where’s that damned dog?

Next: Dog escapes to Battersea dogs home. At least everyone there tells the truth. Bozo instructs Carrie to, haaaa, get something else – gotta have something, must get, y’know better press. Parrot, haaaa, alligator, hyena, anything. Bozo moves to de-peer Lord Downing of Street, aka Cameron, forgotten already? House of Lords says neigh, too leight. Bozo miffed. After all those, haaaa, years being a y’know bullying Bullingdon with him. Eton chaps ort to stick things into things together. Come what may, if you can. Rotter Dave says I only supported Leave for personal reasons. So what, haaaaa. Of course I did. I, I, I, I’m a politician.

More: Carrie goes to pet shop. Brings back the Boys. Bozo terrified, in hiding. Then Carrie arrives with Jack Russell. Who, who’s whaaa, Jack Russell, huh, haaa, don’t need another bally adviser, gottem by the dozen. Jack Russell takes one look, fucks off too. A van arrives with a parrot. Parott says who’s a bad boy then? Bozo strangles parrott, after failure to prorogue it.

And then: bozo, facing the inevitable, prepares resignation honours list. Sir Nigel Farridge. Cummings promoted to Lord Obergruppenf├╝hrer. Carrie nothing like a dame. Spads given OBEwakanobes, membership of British Empire Club, PallMall, others commanded to be nice knights, etc. British Empire reinstated to accommodate MBE, CBE, GBE, DBE, OBE, KBE, CBI, BMI, COD etc. Bozo congratulates England on beating Austria in final, ahhh, cricket test, wonderful goal scored by, by, by phwaaaah, Jo Thingy, yah.

Meanwhile: trumpy-pumpy fires everyone, including Melania, sons, daughters, sons in law, uncles, aunts, all ambassadors everywhere. White house empty. Visits by estate agents (realtors in the USA) asking if he is interested in selling with vacant possession. Putin puttin’ on the pressure – says Russian for soddit, I’ll stand myself and save the trouble of all that submarine, sorry subterfuge. The Democs continue to fight, but nicely. Biden bidin’ his time, which becomes his campaign song. (There is one – I’m biding my time from Girl Crazy, – Gershwin, 1930 … “I’m biding my time ’cause that’s the kinda guy I’m, while other folks grow dizzy, I keep busy bidin’ my time. Next year, next year somethings bound to happen.”) Not so much front runner as front walker-very-slowly. Can do this now without zimmer.

Back home: Gove seen burning books – bought all Waterstones’ stock of Cameron autobiog and lots of firelighters. He is flaming incensed and incandescent. Bozo accuses Cameron of lying, lying down in the face of farridge fire, being too gentlemanly, too Etonian, etc. Albert Hall stage collapses under weight of massive contralto, everyone reminded of Monsterfat Cowbelly, soprano of yesteryear. who submerged Freddie Mercury in Barcelona. Last fright of the Proms. Harriet Harman, tipped to be next Speaker, heard practising. Aw-daaah! Hodaaaaah! Howdaaaaah! Odd-errrrrr! Can’t get it right. Decides she will say Shaddduuup!