One thing you should never say within ear-shot of the Cosmos is this couldn’t possibly get any worse, because yes it can, it always can, and whoever runs the joint will be only too pleased to prove it to you the second you console yourself with the profoundly misguided thought that at least now we’ve hit rock bottom.
Somebody, somewhere, must have been a big enough dumbass to voice the forbidden thought, and now look: the feckless but vaguely pitiable Teresa May, unable to pass her non-Brexit Brexit bill through a cantankerous Parliament, is jumping off the runaway train, and her replacement as Conservative Party leader and UK Prime Minister now bids fair to be – oh yes – Boris Johnson.
Boris Johnson, the farcical but sly and articulate buffoon who teamed up with Nigel Farrage to sell the people a bill of goods on how painless and profitable it would be to scupper out of the European Union. Boris Johnson, the card who out-Trumps Trump in a hundred ways big and small, particularly in the manner in which he actually sounds like he’s making sense. Our Man Boris, whose campaign mantra was that Britain was being bled white by a rapacious E.U., to which the U.K. had to send 350 million pounds each and every week, a message he hammered home by driving this thing all over the place:
It was an outright lie, but lies are just the ticket, aren’t they? The bigger the better, wasn’t that the first rule in the Goebbles playbook? That’s what Boris taught Fat Donny, in what amounted to a dry run for Trump’s improbably triumphant barnstorming campaign in 2016. Just make it up! Say whatever grabs ’em, whatever would indeed be compelling to your average rube, if only it were true. Mind you now, make sure it’s preposterous – that’s what gives it credibility! It works!
You’ve seen Boris on the gogglebox, right? He’s this guy:
Unlike Trump, Boris is funny! He’s like a big blonde Teddy Bear that picks your pocket when you hug him tight, the rumpled rakish charmer.
Hard Brexit, here we come!
Swear to God, I’ve tried, but I can’t find anything to substantiate my suspicion that this guy is on Putin’s payroll. He might actually be granting Vlad’s fondest wishes for free. Maybe even unwittingly. Who knows? Who cares? Either way, now, this is happening. Our best bet, when the time comes, is to stop worrying about the looming catastrophe, and revel in how uproariously entertaining it all is. Boris puts on a show, folks. His insults are witty, his invective inspired, his bluster as good as stand-up, his eye for the absurd seemingly as sharp as anything displayed by the boys in the Python troupe – it’s possible his whole career is a deliberate parody, a sort of performance art, and he’s been waiting for us to get the gag. I can’t think of a better pilot to get on the P.A. and tell us the plane’s about to crash – he’s sure of it, see, ‘cuz he’s the one flying it into the ground. On purpose! The plane is fine, but fuckit, we’re going in! Hyuk!
The funny thing is that he seems to dislike Trump, and has insulted Putin too. Maybe it’s professional rivalry. Here’s brief a hi-lite reel:
the needlefish 