Inside The Head Of Boris Baldric
Exclusive excerpts from the diary of the current British Prime Minister
British politicians have long had a penchant for writing their memoirs, and to ensure a suitable supply of material most keep diaries in which they record the events of the day and their insightful musings. The following excerpts were obtained through means of great cunning and stealth so as to overcome all of Boris’ security precautions (e.g. we simply asked him to give us his diary).
September 7th 2015: I’m bored. Being Lord Mayor of London was such a lark! But it’s been at least six minutes since I did something amusing and life feels very dull. And it’s only 10.15am so I can’t get totally blotto until lunchtime, which is ages away. Mummy said when I’m bored I should think about my goals and what I’m naturally good at.
I’m naturally good at lying. In fact, I’m absolutely f*cking brilliant at it! I remember back in school when I got an A in History and the teacher asked me if I’d made Barnard Gribins write it for me and I said no and he believed me! Mummy said because I was so good at telling fibs I should be a lawyer but it turns out you have to remember things so I became a journalist instead. Nearly everything I wrote was a lie and everyone loved it. Except when they fired me, but then I got practically the same job on a different newspaper so that was all right.
What I really want is to be Prime Minister. That would be loads of fun! I wouldn’t have to do anything and everyone would love me. I bet lots of women would want to have sex with me if I was Prime Minister. My magnificent penis would stun them all. It’s not every man who can boast three and a quarter inches fully erect! The problem is, everyone knows I’m totally useless so no one’s going to let me play at being Prime Minister, which is an awful bore.
Unless… there are some total loonies who want us to leave the European Union, basically because they’re all racist morons. Naturally we’ve got a lot of those in the Conservative Party and they’re all rather keen on this Brexit thing. They make a lot of noise because those kinds of people usually do. Quite like frustrated baboons, actually. Timid little David Cameron has been too afraid to face them down so we’re holding a referendum next year, In or Out. Really stupid, actually, because no one has a clue what “out” would mean. But it seems to have given the Tribe of the Living Brain-Dead quite a lot of renewed energy and the media is all over it.
Oh my! I feel a Cunning Plan appearing in my fertile brain!
Here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to join the Brexiteers and pretend that leaving the EU is a really super wizard idea. Then, when the referendum fails, which it will, because frankly you’d have to be an utter moron to vote Leave, I can present myself as the natural candidate to bridge both sides, heal the divisions within the Party, and all that nonsense. That way I can become Leader of the Party and then Prime Minister! It’s a long shot, I admit, but I don’t have a better idea and besides, there’s a bottle of Pol Roget in the fridge and I rather fancy a few glugs before getting dressed for the day.
24th June 2016: Oh fuck. Can you believe it? There are a lot more morons in the UK than anybody realized!
The Brexit side, my side (at least in Boris’ Pretend-World) won. We’re totally buggered. I never imagined in my worst nightmare that we’d actually win this stupid referendum. What am I going to do now? The last thing I want is to become Prime Minister of a ship that’s just torpedoed itself. I don’t want to be blamed for the catastrophe I pretended I was campaigning for. That wasn’t the plan at all!
Why do people have to be so ignorant and stupid and racist? The lies I told them were so blatantly obvious that even a special-needs infant could have seen through them. I’ve always thought the average person was rather dim (after all, they seem to like me well enough, which proves it) but this is taking things to ridiculous extremes. My only option is to run away and hide and hope this all blows over.
Bollocks.
Worst of all, I’m down to my last 127 bottles of Pol Roget non-vintage brut.
19th October 2016: Well wrap me in pink chiffon and call me Doris! Astoundingly, the idiots who voted for Brexit still haven’t realized it was all a lie. In fact, they’re so amazingly stupid that I’ve become their hero.
The Party has appointed sad little Theresa May as Leader and therefore she is the person to take over from Dithering David as Prime Minister. Which is a total stroke of luck for me, because she can take the blame for everything while I get to appear on TV and tell people how awful she is and how she’s letting the country down. She’s such a drab, earnest little thing. She reminds me of one of those third-rate schoolgirls who plods away diligently near the bottom of the class, convinced that if she works hard enough she can achieve a better grade.
Me, I simply paid or bullied people to write my essays for me. Easy-peasy! I wonder why dull little Theresa never thought of that.
Life right now is in fact rather like being back in school. I’m enjoying torturing Theresa, pretending that her Brexit negotiations are useless and “a betrayal of everything the referendum stood for.” It’s wonderful to be able to utter meaningless phrases like that and instantly get a loud cheer from all the dullards and racists who think Brexit will magically transform Britain back into the days of Empire. This is a good game to play and I’m not so bored now. I’ve not had so much fun since I was bullying first-years at Eton.
Mind you, this is actually better because I can pretend to be a grownup. Best of all, there’s an absolutely hilarious narrative being spread by all the journalists that Brexit was “a vote against the elites.” I nearly wet myself with laughter when I first heard that. Oh yes, a “vote against the elites.” That’s why everyone is supporting me: Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, Old Etonian and President of the Oxford Union. Just a regular ordinary working man of the people, that’s me.
Really, journalists write such utter tosh. And I should know: I was one of them for many years and everything I wrote was absolute rubbish.
January 16th 2019: I do so love torturing sad little Theresa, partly because she’s totally unaware that I’m doing it. She seems to think being mocked and scorned and roundly trounced in Parliament is normal for a British Prime Minister.
Robert Peel back in 1864 sacrificed the Tory Party in order to save Britain but poor dear Theresa now wants to sacrifice Britain in order to save the Tory Party. Which, all the while, is tormenting her in much the same way as a bored little boy pulls the legs off a fly, one-by-one. Ah, fond memories… But I digress. A snitch in her Cabinet tells me she thinks that if she brings her deal back to Parliament for another vote, she may get more support this time.
Again, I nearly wet myself laughing.
In fact, to be completely honest, I did wet myself. The old Boris Bladder isn’t quite what it was and I have to admit that my daily intake of eight bottles of champagne may be taking more of a toll than I realized. Still, what’s the point of life if not to be enjoyed?
And it is rather fun pretending that sad little Theresa’s Brexit deal is a total disaster when quite frankly if I ever get to be Prime Minister I’m going to settle for whatever I can get quickly and then pretend all the dreadful consequences are the fault of the EU. Because I am supremely confident that all those people who were so stupid they actually voted for Brexit are therefore by definition so stupid they’ll believe whatever I tell them, provided I keep it simple and use easy words.
Meanwhile I’ll keep telling people they must reject whatever Theresa proposes and she’ll keep bringing the same thing back over and over again, like a dull little schoolgirl turning in the same essay over and over, always hoping that this time it will somehow earn a better grade.
This may all work out for me, after all.
25th July 2019: F*ck me sideways with a horse and call me Dick Turpin! I saw the Queen yesterday (perhaps I shouldn’t have tripped over one of her damned corgis and then said “oh f*ck!” quite so loudly) and now I’m Prime Minister!
This is why I absolutely adore representative democracy. All you have to do is lie to morons and then they vote for you and then, tra-la, you get to run the country. Or at least, make other people run the country because frankly I don’t really understand what that entails.
If we didn’t have democracy I’d have needed to organize a coup, and although I am an absolute genius and a potent male of the highest order, I also have to admit that I couldn’t organize my way out of a shower cubicle. So three cheers for democracy, the perfect way to power for liars and cheats and clowns like me.
Now, first order of business is to pretend I’m being very stern with the EU and then accept whatever they propose. Because, frankly, I can’t be bothered to read any of those documents and I just want to get this whole Brexit thing over as quickly as possible so I can get on with appearing nightly on television, making my excellent jokes, and quaffing as much free Pol Roger as I can get my chubby little fingers on.
2nd July 2020: Seriously, it’s almost eerie how fortunate I am. Just when it seemed as if there might be an outside chance that one or two of the morons who voted for me would realize what an utter catastrophic hash I’ve made of things so far, along comes the coronavirus to save me!
Now I can blame everything on this virus, and as the media is doing its usual wonderful job of sensationalizing what is in reality a total non-event, everyone’s far too distracted and terrified to notice that we’re heading for the rocks.
I must admit I’m a bit puzzled why the EU hasn’t capitulated. After all, we only rely on exporting to the EU for a tiny 47% of our GDP whereas they utterly depend on us for at least 7% of their collective GDP! So clearly we’ve got an overwhelming advantage we can exploit. If we don’t get a trade deal then our economy may totally collapse but the EU will definitely notice, eventually, that we’re not buying as much from them anymore. And that will show them who they’re dealing with!
But frankly I’m bored with all of that, which is why I let other people do it. Dominant Dominic tells me I shouldn’t worry my little tousled head over such things because he’s taking care of everything for me. He says my job is to tell the jokes; his job is to run the country. And to be honest, that suits me perfectly. I’ve never been any good at actually doing things and on the rare occasions I do give it a go, things always turn out rather poorly.
But thanks to my excellent good luck and this lovely coronavirus, no one will notice!
OK, time for me to practice my Winston Churchill furrowed brow routine. I bet he’d have loved to have had my hair.
I wonder how I can get out of this room? No matter how hard I push on the door, it just won’t budge. I’m beginning to suspect Dominic removed the sign that said push or pull on purpose…
Oh well, at least there’s always a chilled bottle of Pol Roger on hand. It’s genuinely lovely being Prime Minister. Thank goodness for my Cunning Plan.
