Theresa May: ‘Yes I KNOW I appointed Boris to speak for us, but he bloody doesn’t… alright??’

He said whaaaaaaat???

Screeched Theresa May, clawing at a passing intern’s face and simultaneously kicking him in the groin.

The Prime Minister’s personal man-servant, D’arcy Savage-Cutts, paced alongside her nervously, unsure how to reply:

“I’m sorry ma’am, it appears Boris went off script. Some kind of madcap rant. Spooling some rubbish about honest leaders, decency, an end to proxy wars… that kind of clap-trap. Horrifying stuff.”

May stepped over the sobbing intern, gleefully pouring hot Earl Grey in his face.

God damn that flipping imbecile. Doesn’t he realise we’re up shit-creek?? It’s absolutely paramount we profit from as much war and conflict – as much death and mayhem – as we can physically get our grubby little mitts on right now. I’ve told him a million times!

“Preaching to the choir ma’am. We perpetuate the conflicts, we don’t solve them.”

Quite right.

“Shall I get MI6 on the phone? Dispatch the hounds? How about a car crash in a tunnel? We haven’t done that since…”

… No, no D’arcy. There’s no need. I’ll spank the little albino prick myself. I’ve been looking for an excuse to try out the new clamp.

“Very good, ma’am.”

The Prime Minister of Great Britain poured herself another cup of hot Earl Grey tea, stirring in the sugar and bat-blood combo pensively.

How bad was it? Did the Saudis kick up a right stink?

“Well, I’m sorry to say they only sent ten sacks of gold, instead of the usual thirty. Along with what seems to be a severed hand.”

Great, just great. Boris-effing-Johnson. That sanctimonious little butt-munch. Just wait ’til I get my hands on him. He’s gonna pay for that. What a total git.

Not a safe pair of hands

“Might I make a suggestion, Prime Minister? In retrospect, perhaps Boris wasn’t the safest bet for Foreign Secretary. I did try to warn you. Many of the minions warned you…”

We refer to them as ‘the Cabinet’ now, D’arcy.

“Apologies. Many of your ‘Cabinet’ warned you, ma’am. None of us quite understood what was going on in your head that day. We thought it was a joke. Or you were back on the crystal meth.”

No, no. I appointed Boris because the plebs find him entertaining. They love a good show. Watching him is a bit like watching You’ve Been Framed. Considering Boris led us into this shit-storm in the first place, he seemed the perfect distraction of wispy blonde hair and waffle, leaving me to my evil schemes. I didn’t expect him to grow some balls. Or a conscience.

“What do you plan to do?”

Don’t panic. Do what we always do. Tell the public exactly what they need to hear. That it’s nothing to do with us. Tell them… I dunno… tell them: Yes, OK. I appointed Boris to speak for us. But he doesn’t ACTUALLY speak for us, alright? And we send the Saudis one of those bumper Dunkin’ Donuts gift boxes. The really expensive ones.

“Very good.”

My God, even Nigel Farage might be worth a punt after all this. At least he has his reptilian tongue firmly wedged in Trump’s nether-bits.

Both shuddered, imagining that particular image.

Suddenly, they noticed the pungent aroma of tea-scalded flesh. And the intern dragging himself across the floor.

Get that boy to a hospital will you, D’arcy? And find me a new one. Preferably from a disadvantaged background. You know I like the way they whimper.

Featured image via YouTube / Wikimedia