Your Arse Will Get Fatter

[The Pub] Two Gentlemen

– Ye see they brought out that new setta filters on Instagram?
-Is that right?
– Aye. Brought them out yesterday there.
– Right. *unsure* What do they do?
– *matter-of-factly* They’re for your dick.
– Fuck. Is that right, aye?
– Aye, was lookin’ at them there today.
– Jesus, *lies* I don’t be on Instagram too much these days.
– Naw, me neither. Me neither.
– *piqued* So, here…like what do they do?
– Ack, just make it look a bit different, tidy it up like.
– *hesitant* …can they it make it any bigger?
– *with finality* Naw. That’s the one thing they can’t do.
– *crestfallen* Aw…
– They can make it smaller.
– *distractedly* …aw. Naw… No call for that.

I have enormous respect, for Boris Johnson. I look to him as a shining symbol of all that is great and good in this world of ours. Character, integrity, good looks, charisma: the man really has it all. The things he does, whilst on camera, are just off the scale. I mean the sheer gall. He really is something else. You know I was watching his latest briefing earlier, (wowed, of course), when I couldn’t help but notice a couple of things. I don’t know, subliminal messaging, call it what you want; it was almost like there was something he was communicating, beyond the inspired slogans, and masterful rhetoric. Let me just pick a few things out…

The first: “While we work together to suppress the people, Arghem! Virus.”

Boris makes a booboo. “We must suppress! We must suppress! We must suppress!” A favourite command, exhorted while he and his cohorts play Robots in No10 (Tuesday mornings, 11am-12noon), has obviously found it’s way into the small spot in his consciousness reserved for public speaking. Let’s be fair, an easy mistake to make. Boris remains: The Man on Top.
Note: The ball of phlegm that was ejected from the PM’s mouth upon this slip-o’-the-tongue, missed the cameraman by inches. He never flinched.

Next: “And of course, I am deeply, spiritually reluctant to make any of these impositions or infringe(upon?) anyone’s freedom.”

Spiritually? Why, I believe I’ve just been hooked! Boris too is a man of humble piety, and perhaps a man of great wisdom and foresight. The emphasis with which he infused that word! Obviously drawn from some deep, deep well of emotion: This man is the real deal.
“You know he meditates two hours daily? Yes, sat at the feet of Pope Francis and the Dalai Lama. That’s right, wears a cloak around Number 10…”

Now: “We will put more police out on the streets and use the army to backfill, if necessary…”

If there was one line that made me think twice about whether this wasn’t the beginning of some weird, twisted modern-day holocaust… But no. These are perfectly understandable measures given the circumstances and one could argue that a visible military presence on the streets only serves to comfort and reassure. I know that when I see a jackbooted commando march his rifle past my window, it causes my face to break out in an even grin. “Mr Johnson. A-thankyou.”

And here: “We must take action now, because a stitch in time saves nine,”

 Oh Boris! Take me now, you devil! When I heard these words, my…I melted. This timeless edict has never before rang with such effect. These words, in the hands of the layman are trite and meaningless, but…But. Jesus, I don’t know what to think anymore. I’m stumped. Stupefied.

“One day soon, and I must stress that we’re not there yet, a mass testing, so efficient, that people will be able to be tested in minutes, *afterthought* so they can do more of the things they love. That’s the hope. That’s the dream. It’s hard, but it’s attainable, and we’re working as hard as we can to get there. But until we do, we must rely, on our willingness to look out for each other, to protect, each other. Never in our history, has our collective destiny, (and here the smiling starts, is he taking this seriously?) and our collective health, depended on our individual behaviour. ”

 Wait a second. Boris, you have dreams? By Gad, at times you almost seem human. So, a mass testing system. Gather the peasants into the nearest nightingale hospital, conveniently empty this time of year, strange…, force spiked instruments down their throats, grim-faced matrons slapping their foreheads mercilessly with open palms until a temperature forms, then a quick jab with a near-molten cattle-prod as they’re pushed to the exit: “There’s your number, don’t forget it!” “I’m free! I’m free! To the nearest shopping centre!” “No, McDonalds first!” “How about a concert? I hear there’s a gig on later!” Boris by this point is fronting a hit rock group, (Boris and The Gazettes, Eponymous, rated 5 stars across the board, all major publications) and is rumoured to be working on a collaboration with US Presidential candidate Kanye West.

“the fight against covid”

 Yes, yes, it’s one big fight, and we’re all in it. We are at war! Does not this insinuation rile some latent patriotism in you? Do battle-scenes not careen across the sound stage of your imagination? This is what our forefathers died for! Boris! I am with you! I will lay down my life for the greater good! Off to army supply store with me. I will be spending this winter’s lockdown decked out in full military regalia, waiting in my bunker for the first shell to hit.

“the discipline(beat yourself down), the resolve(do not allow yourself or any other person to stop you from keeping yourself down),and the spirit of togetherness (ah, humanity.)…


One can’t help but wonder is there a prankster colleague jumping from foot to foot behind the camera, pulling faces in an attempt to get our man to burst into peals of laughter. It certainly seems like he’s on the verge throughout, more so than ever when it comes to this final statement. Or maybe he’s just a little pleased with himself, with the certainty that he has once again delivered.

But here, it’s been an awfully long, drawn-out examination, and God it’s tiring, isn’t it? If you’re as bored reading this as I am writing it(the fictional ‘I’, to be sure), then you’re ready for a cigarette. And several pints. And a weighty packet of cocaine. To finish, I’ll simply state that Boris is Our Man. A man among men. A man of the ages. One whose doings will surely be woven into the fabric of time.

Be not surprised then, fair reader, if when you look to the skies tonight, instead of seeing that familiar, comforting sickle moon nestled amongst the clouds, you spy the ballooned face of Our Boris Johnston, five times the size, a picture of steely resolve, and stainless moral ineptitude; not forgetting that faint trace of a smile that is never far from his face, a constant reminder never to take one word he says seriously.