Letter from Boris Johnson

Alright Charlie

Now, down to details. We’ve both been hard done by. You with a rather tawdry prison sentence, and I derided at every step of the way for my politics. A stitch up I tell you, its an utter stitch up.

I’ll be truthful, Charlie, I’m down. Like Emperor Valens hitched from the bowels of Arcadia, I’ve been forced to preside over a state of barbarians. Sure I may fall, the barbarous hordes may get me, as is their wont, but we all know what happened to the Empire. Ha!

Only last night was I chewing over the cud, ruminating the body politic when a man appeared on the telly and started to hurl a volley of abuse aimed at yours truly. I hung my head in sorrow at the Pope’s words. Yes, I’ll be honest, it hurt.

Quid quintus quorum. There I am wearing only my wee winkie cap and saying to myself—what is it that I did wrong?

They knew I was in the Bullingdon. They knew about Eton. Wealth, privilege, naughtiness! I never hid it. Sexual peccadilloes? For God’s sake man look at me. I’ve hair like straw, chops like bacon, me eyes droop– if I can get me leg over I bloody well will!.

So, like an albino pig, a hippopotamus stuck with a spear, I wallow this evening in a tub of my own misery (read Ben and Jerry’s Fish Food. O sorry I meant Phish Food (Cheers Marina, PH.PH.S)).

It was never like this in the Bullingdon. Riding the velvet helmet of youth, the lustre of wealth, the very lux and the veritas. How is it our fault Charlie old bean, chum of my old drinking society and generally assish behaviour, that we were part of an elite society of alcoholic athletes?

But now these same folk cart me with their words like I was a latter day Simonides, the miserly scrote. There I was at the Labour party conference, stood at the plinth, giving them a bit of off-the-cuff persiflage. And them…their beady little eyes boring into me, not a murmur. Not a giggle. Well its not on.

We, the ruling class, are now the subject of them, the masses. Like Pentheus they tear me limb by limb. And Tuppy just sat there, gaping like a dead fish. You’re in charge man, do something! Grapple with them.

Well it’s just not cricket. Which of you is without sin, I ask? Go one, own up. Which one? Well if there are any of you out there then here, take this paper projectile and hurl it at my head. Ha, not one of you dare!

No, no, no judge me not on hearsay but “let the facts speak for themselves.”

Thank you Horace. I mean Demosthenes, Marina. (God I long for my manumission).

Anyway chin up Charles won’t be too long I reckon

Bojo from the Bullingdon


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