DO you know how long I’ve wanted to be prime minister? My whole life. And I finally get here and what happens? You, the British people, seem determined to ruin it.
It was going to be so great. I was going to be walking out into Parliament, firing out quips, passing bills, bamboozling the EU, effortlessly whipping Britain into a brilliant new age. They were going to call me the Golden King.
But then what happens? I’ve barely got my feet under the desk, I’ve had no more than three holidays, and you rotten bastards start coughing. And dying. And apparently it’s my job to do something about it.
Well I did. I locked down. That was bloody Churchillian. And after a rousing personal battle against the virus to show how it’s done, I opened Britain up again because I love freedom and pubs and frankly I was bored.
It was going great. The lefties were outraged I was breaking international law, the Telegraph loved me again, I wasn’t stuck in with Carrie and the sprog.
Then the f**king coughing starts up again, miserable Whitty starts in about ‘exponential growth’ and guess who’s got to play the killjoy? Muggins here.
It’s all your fault. If you’d been careful you wouldn’t have caught it. This should be the best time of my life. And instead I’m stuck listening to pricks telling me facts. I don’t like facts.
You’ve ruined this for me and I won’t forget it. And if I hear one peep of ingratitude about your hard Brexit, that’s it. You can stick your country up your arse.