A Blue Moon for Boris

‘Hhhhrrrmmmph, by gad, gadzzoooks. We’re gonna bash that Marxist Corbyn back into his commie politburo.’ Johnson spluttered, piggy eyes screwed up, shoulders hunched in his characteristic Churchillian slouch.

‘Yes, but that might prove harder than you think,’ Dominic Cummings deliberated, easing himself back into his armchair and sipping his single malt. ‘What Corbyn is putting forward makes sense and what we are pushing is a bunch of lies, fake news and promises that we have no intention of keeping.’

‘Hmmm, gosh, since when has truth got anything to do with it?’ Johnson blustered. ‘All they care about is Brexit. Brexit. We can do anything we want.’

‘Just as long as we keep it focussed on Brexit,’ Cummings murmured. ‘That’s where we’ll win.’

‘Yes, by gad, hmmmppphh, snort, snort, get the job done. It’s all sealed – like an oven ready chicken, what. Prick it, slap it in the microwave on gas mark 4 and baaamo. There’s your baby. Die in a ditch and over my dead body.’

‘Yes,’ Cummings muttered. He was studying Johnson with a critical eye. The man was a loose cannon. Could he be trusted to deliver and not go off on one? Unsure. But he was all they had – an Eton toff, bumbling Billy Bunter on amphetamine. For some reason the public seemed to love him. ‘Just keep it on Brexit.’

‘Wilco, hrrmmpphhh’ Johnson said with a flourish. ‘te potest numerare in me!’ (You can count on me)

Cummings raised his eyebrows, took a sip of his whisky and sighed deeply. At least they stood a good chance of getting Brexit done, crashing out and sending the whole country flying. That might just make it worth it.’

‘Cripes, I mean blimey, I’m putting blooming billions into the NHS, police and, and, and bally education! Won’t that bally well please the blighters!’

Cummings shook his head. ‘No, no, no.’ He sighed again. ‘You keep off of that. Brexit is it. Stick to Brexit’

Johnson nodded like a dopey-eyed hound eager to please his master.

Cummings fixed him with his sternest look. ‘Brexit. Brexit. Brexit. Alright?’

‘Yes, by Jove, I know, but well, well cripes, it’s like wasting all that loot,’ Johnson protested.

‘We’re not wasting any loot,’ Cummings reminded him. ‘We’ll never spend it. They are just election promises. After the election nobody will remember. Once you’re in, they can’t do anything about it can they? They expect it. Nobody keeps election promises, do they? Not even Labour.’

‘But, but, but bloody hell, blithering bilgehooks, bloody Corbyn might,’ Johnson blustered. ‘He means it! The man’s a, a, a, a blinking real socialist. He’d give all the bloody loot to the oiks, to every Tom, Dick and Harry! He’s a bloody commie through and through.’

‘Yes he might,’ Cummings agreed, sipping the single malt, which now seemed to have lost its appeal. ‘That’s precisely why we’ve set the media running at full steam painting him as a dangerous extremist who would break the country. But we don’t want him deflecting us onto the NHS, Education or the crime wave do we? That would be a mistake, wouldn’t it? You’ve been shafting them for the past ten years, haven’t you?’ He rolled his eyes. It was like training cats to chase and fetch.

‘Well, well, cripes,’ Johnson spluttered. ‘What have they contributed to the bally country? Bunch of parasites.’

‘Yes,’ Cummings sighed with more than a hint of exasperation. ‘Precisely. But if you want to get elected you have to pander to the common people. One Nation Toryism and all that. Make them feel you are on their side and they’re getting something out of it. You don’t remind them that you’ve spent ten years screwing them to give more to your chums, do you?’ He peered hopefully at Johnson but remained unconvinced by what he saw. ‘Brexit. Brexit. Brexit. Alright?’ He continued to pound the message home more in hope than expectation. ‘And while you’re at it don’t ever say anything that leads into plugging tax loopholes, food banks, homelessness, more doctors, knife crime, Windrush, hostile environment, climate change, Trump and the NHS, fiddling expenses, Russian donors, May’s husband making a killing from bombing Syria, Tax cuts for the wealthy, tax cuts for corporations, doctoring Kier Starmer, housing, letter boxes, bank robbers, battle bus promises, Hunt’s backhanders, fake news, chlorinated chicken, social benefits, universal credit, student fees, potholes, councils, nurses, firms fleeing abroad or anything other than Brexit, Brexit, Brexit! Those are all things we’ve lied about, failed to deliver, messed up, or stink of corruption. Got it??’

‘Cor blimey Dom, er, er, I mean, cripes. That’s quite a list, quite a list I tell you. How the bloody hell am I meant to remember all that?’

‘Just remember Brexit, Brexit, Brexit,’ Dominic Cummings said wearily, ‘And be glad the elections only come around once in a blue moon.’