SPAFFER SPATCHCOCKED : The Tory Party is said to be in a restless mood at the moment as Mr Johnson continues his one man impersonation of a living, breathing disaster. The human zeppelin of governance is making a titanic success of both the pandemic and Brexit. Now that the Brexit con is complete, how long will they let old Bunter hang on?
The answer to that may lie in how long it takes the secret society which governs the party to choose the successor, before they make a public display of holding a contest. The kittens are being bagged for the altar as we speak. The dark hoods donned and the kleptocratic, internationalist clique which bankrolls the Tories asked to memorise the codewords and come along for the “day of deciding”.
“There’s a few names in the hat,” a 1922 Committee insider told LCD Views, as he drank a bubbling elixir to allow him to see into the Netherworld and better make his choice.
“There’s Satan. There’s Pestilence. There’s some grey skinned fellow without a nose who claims to come from somewhere called Zargon-2B0. Wherever that is. Apparently they have a booming tax haven industry, so he gets consideration. We’re moving into space don’t you know! Just as soon as we Get Brexit ReDone. By the time we’ve finished promising to act on Climate Change we’ll have to move into space! Ha! Did you know my grandfather was the first man to use sands from the Sahara to jam a camera lens? True story. What were we talking about again? The potion is kicking in. Who are you? Who am I? Who really is running the country? Are you all mad? Aren’t you paying attention to what we’re doing to you? Why the hell do you let us keep being the government? Pass the salt please, I’ve got some wounds to rub.”
While the 1922 Committee is clearly stark raving mad, we do have a short list of the possible successors.
There’s Rishi Sunak. A bookies favourite, but so mired in the mistakes that worsened the pandemic any rival should be able to take him out, no matter how professionally he styles his hair.
There’s Liz Truss. Darling of the party, but a cheese block, so let’s just move on.
There’s Dominic Raab. Intensely dense, he’s in with a shot. And he’s got some distance between himself and the pandemic.
There’s Michael Gove. But having left his wife seems like a sign he’s already bowed out.
There’s Sajid Javid, he wants to kill them all and let God sort them out. He’s a high profile useful idiot. He’ll be left out too.
The list goes on. But whoever is chosen it’ll still be Rupert Murdoch.