By Ben Pensant
Is it possible for Britain’s so-called Prime Minister to sink any lower? It’s a question I’ve asked myself repeatedly over the past two months.
Like most people I assumed beastly Boris had reached his nadir when he defied democracy and prorogued Parliament, a move so horrifying I immediately did a quick Google to find out what it meant. Needless to say, I was even more disturbed when I learnt that a ‘prorogue’ is neither a sex-toy nor that dinosaur thing out of Games Of Thrones that chins sheep and fucks farmhands.
But amazingly, the bigoted buffoon keeping St. Jezza’s toilet seat warm went one better, out-viling himself by having the blonde balls to lie to the Queen. Yes, really. This disrespectful act outraged all manner of leftists, who temporarily forgot their longstanding republicanism to howl in disgust at Johnson for telling porkies to some miserable old hag they’d happily behead if it meant putting the Dear Leader on the iron throne.
You’d think this foul behaviour would represent Boris at his absolute worst. Surely even he couldn’t scrape the barrel more than fibbing to a monarch? Think again. Because last night he plumbed depths that were disgraceful even for him, traumatising Parliament and shaking the House of Commons to its core. Yes, fresh from brutalising his child bride by arguing with her in earshot of a pair of Guardian readers, the same vile specimen who grossly offended liberals everywhere with his infamous ‘picaninnies’ column that none of them read pulled off his most disgusting trick yet:
He said the word ‘humbug’.
Yes. Humbug. HUMBUG. In 2019. On live television. To a Labour MP whose life is such a non-stop fright-fest she spends every waking hour in Westminster terrified that the Thatcher statue might come to life and eat her up. This is our Prime Minister, people.
But that’s not even half of it. Because he didn’t merely drop the H-bomb: he said it in response to being bravely called out for crudely calling the Mr Benn Brexit Bill the ‘Surrender Act’. That’s right. SURRENDER ACT. He went there. For shame.
And he wasn’t merely sticking two fingers up at brave Labour MP Pauline Sherriff for exposing his attempt to incite fascists into killing mediocre backbenchers by deploying the notorious alt-right dog whistle of stringing together two inoffensively beige words. No, he was also scoring a cheap point against people he disagrees with by exhuming the cadaver of Joe Cox. And as everyone knows, only left-wingers are allowed to do that.
Of course, the fact that he reached for the vile racially loaded term ‘humbug’ when replying to Pauline not only demonstrates his commitment to Nazi principles but also his complete lack of imagination. Because while progressives pride themselves on their ready wit, Johnston completely missed the easy tap-in, blissfully unaware that Sherriff had gifted him the chance to crack a joke about whips, horses, or running her out of town. He can’t even get his puns right.
Instead, he showed his true colours by turning to the catchphrase made famous by Ebeneezer Goode, the protagonist from Charles Darwin’s Great Expectations. Needless to say, it’s no surprise that Johnston is a huge a fan of this problematic tome, which revolves around the insanely silly idea that an evil capitalist deserves to be redeemed and forgiven for his past misdeeds, as opposed to shunned, cancelled, and imprisoned for crimes against humanity.
The book also takes place at Christmas, which no doubt filled notorious Islamophobe Johnston with glee as he read about Baabar Cratchitt’s marginalised family being force-fed non-halal turkey during the climactic diner scene: finally free from poverty but forever in debt to their tyrannical white saviour and his insistence on inviting the kids around to listen to Cat Stephens records and chat shit with Mohammad’s ghost. I’m surprised the toffee-nosed twat hasn’t made it compulsory reading. Give it time.
It shows his desire to reach the sizable minority of homicidal fascists who take their cues from posh politicians that he chose a word as inflammatory as ‘h****g’ to deliberately piss all over Joe’s legacy. And deliberately piss all over it he did, despite the fact that it was Sherriff who brought her up first. Indeed, it’s always Labour or Remainer MPs who bring her up, such is their commitment to honouring Joe’s memory by using her bullet-ridden corpse to win an argument. She’d be soooo proud.
Thankfully, no left-wing or pro-EU politician ever uses provocative language, and the multitude of comments calling Brexiteers ‘fascists’, ‘dictators’, and ‘worse than Nazis’ should be flatly ignored and filed away in the same memory hole as David Lamby’s expenses receipts.
Similarly, no left-wing journalist, activist, or whateverthefuckOwenJonesis-ist has ever accused their ideological foes of murder, or wrote a single syllable suggesting they deserve to be punched, imprisoned or decapitated. And if you do find evidence of any of the above then in no way whatsoever can it be classed as ‘incitement’, no matter how many alt-right loons say otherwise. We’re talking about people who are so wrapped up in bigotry they think a religious text explicitly instructing its 1.8 billion followers to commit murder is more likely to inspire violence than a Daily Fail headline calling a bunch of judges ‘traitors’. They’re insane.
Basically, when you’re on the Good Side you can be as inflammatory as you like without having to worry about lowering the tone. Indeed, the one good thing to come out of President Pussy-Grab’s administration has been the way he’s inspired mild-mannered politicians of all hues to unleash their inner Trump, in all its drunk-tweeting, shite-talking, dead-mother-and-wife-exploiting glory.
Needless to say, this is why left-wing politicians are so beloved on social media, and why last night’s brave, ballsy, cynically opportunistic performances by Pauline Sherriff et al caused ripples all the way from Facebook to Twitter. Of course, in the real world most people find words and phrases like ‘humbug’ and ‘surrender act’ about as inflammatory as the scene in the Downtown Abbey movie where Bertie says “oh hang!” after spilling brandy on Cora’s tits. But that’s because people in the real world are the ones most likely to be brainwashed into killing left-wing politicians by such foul language.
In the defiantly middle-class world of TV studios, newspaper offices, and mammoth Twitter threads exploring how murderous right-wing psychos are radicalised by Rod Lidl’s hair, the threat is very real. And it’s down to us to keep reminding each other exactly how real it is in order to convince ourselves there’s actually a point to spending every day waving our dicks at complete strangers like any of it actually fucking matters.
The only worry is what Johnston might say next, and what foul acts he’ll inspire the dumb public to carry out in his name. Having already shifted the Ovaltine Window so far right we can’t see it anymore, it’s time to buckle up and be prepared for the barrage of Brexiteer violence set to erupt the second Johnston drops his biro at the despatch box and screams “knickers!” .
A terrifying prospect but these are terrifying times. The best way to be ready for the onslaught is to watch the PM like a hawk and analyse his speeches for secret shout-outs to alt-right assassins. I’ve been doing this for some time and it’s repeatedly paid dividends, especially since discovering his sick habit of dropping offensive terms into every sentence.
For further evidence of what we’re up against I’ll leave you with the painful memory of Johnston calling St. Jezza a ‘big girl’s blouse’. Or so we thought. I myself wasn’t convinced. So, petrified of where this revolting government’s abusive verbal attacks could lead, I hired Aaron Pastrami’s personal lip-reading specialist to analyse the footage. Needless to say, I was shaken, outraged, but not remotely surprised when he confirmed to me that what vile Johnston actually said was:
“Cunt, bitch, kike, dyke, paki, paddy, nigger, faggot, retard, spastic, towel-head, moron, chinky, guinea, dago”
The man’s a menace. The war on words starts NOW.