Giving self love a bad name since he performed his own Caesarian Section on his long suffering mother back on June 19th, 1964, Boris Johnson has scaled such heights of tiresomeness that only a Dengue Fever laden mosquito with narcissistic personality disorder could come close to matching his sheer unlikability. Generally considered to be the biggest waste of blonde hair since Jayne Mansfield’s tragic decapitation in a crashed Buick, he has still managed to convince everyone that he is the worthy successor to Winston Churchill in both political gravitas and leadership nous. When we say everyone, we mean the dead eyed sex workers he routinely hires to dress up like Neville Chamberlain and role play in a dominance and submission BDSM ritual with Johnson dressed as Eleanor Roosevelt. The safe word is “micropenis”.
Historically the only politician scientifically and quantifiably proven to contain even less traces of charisma than Theresa May, Johnson’s self delusion of competence has still led him, since 2015, to lead a fairly successful career as a highly unsuccessful member of parliament for the glamorous hotspots of Uxbridge and South Ruislip. Unfortunately he has been unable to spend much time in his constituency since the erection by his constituents of a thirty metre tall Wicker Man with his name painted in ram’s blood on its torso situated next to the Tesco Metro on the high street. Many world leaders were subsequently discovered to have secretly contributed to the Wicker Man’s GoFundMe campaign with North Korea’s Kim Jung Un donating $165, half of his country’s agricultural budget. As always, Johnson considered the threat of his immolation surrounded by a baying mob as a form of back handed compliment and after hearing of it he went into to a nearby toilet cubicle to look, once again, at his genitals.