Prime Minister Pants On Fire has told another whopper. All the No Deal preparations have, apparently, been done, says Boris Johnson, with his fingers tightly crossed behind his back.
The Whopper-o-Meter has been turned up to eleven for this one, though. Boris is hoping that having croggsies will save him.
As everybody knows, having croggsies (or skinch, faynites, exes, kings etc.) is enough to protect you from yourself. Boris therefore believes he has immunity from his every action and word. No wonder that he mimics Churchill’s hands behind his back pose.
Another advantage is that nobody can now tig him, so everybody else has to go chasing round in a futile manner. Nobody can TIG him, either.
Boris also believes that this action will prevent his pants catching fire. Unfortunately for him, even asbestos knickers have proved ineffective.
Everything will be just fine, the PM insists. Pharmacies are being advised to stockpile six weeks’ worth of essentials, ‘just in case’ No Deal Brexit turns out to be a bit shit.
Householders are being encouraged to turn over their prize lawns to produce six months’ worth of spuds by the end of October, on the off chance that Ireland won’t smuggle enough of them across the frictionless border to ensure that fat Englishmen get their daily ration of chips.
Johnson is hoping that nobody will notice that the EU will refuse to trade with the UK until we settle our liabilities, which Boris insists he will not do.
Johnson wants to dispose of his predecessor’s compromises, which made her deal possible, if not desirable. He wants to dismantle it despite voting for it, and carry on fudging until the last minute. With croggsies to get him off the hook.
Don’t panic! It could be worse. We could have nuclear hurricanes if Donald Trump gets his way. Instead we have Boris Johnson trying to divert the coming shitstorm with a Roman candle and a couple of sparklers.