Letters from Number 10

Letters from Number 10

Lance Goodman January 2020

LETTERS FROM NUMBER 10

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Copyright © 2020 Lance Goodman All rights reserved.

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Letters from Number 10 Prime Ministers write…

David Cameron David Cameron served as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom from 2010 to 2016. He was the Member of Parliament (MP) for Witney from 2001 to and leader of the Conservative Party from 2005 to 2016.

Cameron’s legacy is arguably Brexit. In 2016, he lost the EU referendum to his erstwhile cabinet colleagues Johnson and Gove. Cameron resigned just after the result and passed the baton to Theresa May who utterly failed to ‘Get Brexit Done’. In 2019, Boris Johnson took over and won the general election that year.

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22nd August 2015 Dear United Kingdom, Yesterday, George stood up in the House of Commons to deliver ‘my’ budget speech. I cannot tell you the joy it gave me to do so without that annoying little freckled oik from the Libs Dems, Danny Alexander I think his name was, hovering and farting in the background grinning like a cat who has just won the cream lottery. The first Tory budget for ages, well I say the first 'Tory' budget but I actually mean my budget, all mine, no one else's ...just me. I have to thank, of course, Tony for following on from the Sainted Margaret in not actually changing anything fundamental from Conservative policies in his own 'New Labour' budgets.

I delivered a speech to the nation yesterday to appeal to the Sun and Daily Mail reading, hard working families, although I admit they are a weird bunch who are a bit hard on poofters, darkies and the ecofeminists. Nonetheless without them we would not have a benchmark for bigotry, misogyny and ignorance. I blathered on a bit about the low tax, high wage, low welfare economy and nicked the phrase 'living wage' just to get few headlines of course.

Yesterday's speech was for public consumption. However, today, I'd like to make it clear what my thinking is behind the budget speech.

First of all, let's deal with 'United Kingdom'. I know there is a long history of the Tory Party being a party of the 'Union', of all 4 countries. You and I know of course that is complete bollocks. Northern Ireland: well its not even a full country is it? The last useful thing that province did was to build the Titanic and look what happened, the bloody thing sank. Wales: they have their assembly what more do they want? Any economy based on sheep, singing and whinging frankly ought to be cut loose and drift off into the North Atlantic. Scotland: Look, you had your chance during the Scottish Enlightenment when the likes of Adam Smith raised you from the darkest mires of Celtic medievalism and clan envy. Now you've blown it asking for oil money and democracy. Just give us your whisky and we'll leave you to your whining, drinking and incest. Good God, it's like having three irritating, indigent neighbours always coming around asking to borrow a 'cup of sugar' to take back to their obese kids' porridge.

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That only leaves England. Well, let's be real here, we are talking the home counties and London. All that shite about Northern Powerhouses is really just to keep the chippy Mancunians and thieving scousers on board. Christ, if the likes of Sheffield, Leeds and Scunthorpe got any money they'd only spend it on fags, chips and racism. Can you imagine them all rushing down the M1 and the M6 to London, flashing the cash with the gay abandon of Del Boy on amphetamine? They'd be wanting the decent tables at restaurants, access to the Opera and a chippy in Mayfair. Oh no, not while Chipping Norton has its tea rooms and kitchen suppers they don't ! While I'm at it, thank God for the Tamar; keeps the loony Cornish nationalists festering about their pasty and 'jam before or after cream' grievances about Devon. Much better they moan about the Dawlish railway rather than the fact that I own half of Padstow. Four nations 'United Kingdom? Don't make me laugh, London and the home counties are the only shows in town. My advice to the Celtic fringes and dreary northerners is to take their festering resentment and move if they don't like the rain, the poverty and the godawful accents. By 'move', I don't of course mean to Surrey, Berkshire or Hampstead. I mean to Greece, Spain or Portugal. Its cheap there, or it will be as soon as the euro implodes.

George and I bang on about 'one nation'. As long as that means Eton. How can there ever really be 'one nation' when you have an underclass too thick, lazy or ignorant to want to do anything other than watch Jazzer Kyle's freak show while soaking their feet in gin bought by overgenerous disability benefits and fuckwittery? Look, I know that cutting welfare, and in work benefits, will not be offset by my 'living wage'. I'm not stupid, I've done the numbers. yes, the bottom will suffer cuts, but that is the point, it is supposed to be painful for them. The point is to keep about a fifth of the population in penury, a fifth in near penury, another fifth worried about being in penury, the next fifth worried about why they are not like the next fifth while this fifth worry about school fees, mortgages and immigrants. That way the population keeps hungry and aspirational, driving forward the wheel of capitalism which has so richly rewarded them. The bottom fifth need the poverty to incentivise them to escape it. I did not get where I am today by sitting in a council house and working for minimum wage at Tesco.

No, I got off my arse, went to Eton and Oxbridge, networked with some jolly good chums and joined the Tories. If I can do it, so can they. Those on benefits and minimum wage need to learn good habits and moral behaviour, to put their savings into investment portfolios so that they can send their kids to decent (fee paying) schools if they want to. The rest can choose to continue to work in the service sector, in fact we need them to do so for who else will clean, care cook and lapdance? We need this 'reserve army of labour' to battle for jobs to keep the economy efficient, we don't want the bloody French taking over our restaurants, we don't want the Germans...we just don't.

Defence: We sing 'Rule Britannia' for God's sake. How the hell are we going to bomb countries into behaving if we don't spend money on "our boys". We did not build an empire,

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'sequester' resources and spread guns, germs and imperialism through the neglect of military force. Look, the post cold war strategy has gone a bit wonky, yes we supported islamist lunatics against some baddies. How did we know they were going to turn on us? Do you think they teach proper Middle East history in Cambridge? Well, actually they do, but how is a chap supposed to join in the Bullingdon japes while attending dreary lectures about geopolitics and religious fervour in far off and, frankly smelly, countries we used to own or bomb? One does not become Chancellor and Prime Minister (forgive me a little indulgence there) by swotting while neglecting the making of future chums of those destined for a decent little earner in the City?

Apologies, but the bell has just rung for lunch. Must dash, Samantha's just hired this corking little catering outfit that does a champers lunch for just shy of a 'monkey' I believe it's called.

Yours

Dave.

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April 2016 Dear George, The Bastards.

Bloody Peston should have stayed at the BBC, I could have warned them off this story. I’ve been putting them off the scent with three days of stalling and four ‘statements’ issued here at Downing Street. Bugger me, a tart at a gang bang could not have worked harder to resist the probing I’ve been subjected to. All this fuss about a piffling £31,500 from pater’s fund in the Bahama’s, Christ it’s not enough to fund Sam’s parties, fond as she is of the fizz and whatnot, and I’m not talking about that prosecco shite the oiks drink either.

I admit it. Yes, its been a “a difficult few days”, and I think the profit of £19,000 is just not worth the effort of sitting on my hands while Peston blathered on. I could have punched his smug face. Pity Boris wasn’t handy. Just because I do not know whether the £300,000 I inherited from pater is a benefit of a so called ‘tax haven’, pater’s estate being based in a unit trust in Jersey, does that mean I have to answer every damn fool question tossed in my direction like a mackerel at a demented seal? “I obviously can’t point to the source of every bit of money and dad’s not around for me to ask the questions now,” I told the c*nt, Pissed meself at that one later.

Anyway, and now I see the great unwashed are dragging up quotes. Even the bogtrotters at the Belfast Telegraph have printed: “Frankly some of these schemes where people are parking huge amounts of money offshore and taking loans back to just minimise their tax rates it is not morally acceptable”. Taken completely out of context of course, what I meant was clear surely? The good news is that they have forgotten the ‘pigs’ ear you made of the budget (note I can do self-deprecation), the fuck up with the deficit, and issues around poor productivity and investment.

Cont….

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The reason I’m writing is this…you can’t lend me a few quid till pay day, all my spare cash is currently ‘indisposed’ if you get my drift?

Pip pip David PS if you see Boris grinning like a monkey with a new banana, kick the twat for me will you?

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9th April 2016 Dear George, Praise the Lord!

My old chum Charles, you know the chap, ex editor of the “Torygraph” – has a marvellous cellar and some naughty ‘pictures’ from Ladies Day at Ascot, has dug up a little nugget about Justin’s pater. Turns out the old bugger is not his pater at all. Mummy Welby it seems was up to a bit of ‘how d’you do’ with that old louche Monty Brown, Churchill’s PS. So the AB of C is a bastard. Really. And I can say that without fear of contradiction? I’m having my lawyers check that out as I write.

What a corker.

I had a word with a chap at the beeb and they ran with that story this morning for absolutely bloody ages. Something along the lines of “establishment figure tells establishment figure that his establishment figure dad is actually another aristocratic figure”. Took them ages to discuss this in prime time. The oiks lap it up, easily distracted as you know. Show them a bright shiny thing in your right hand and they’ll forget you are holding a turd in your left, apropos your recent budget…sorry to mention it again).

Anyway, takes the heat off me for a moment.

I see twitter has gone all #cameronresign. What a bunch of c*nts…who do they think will step into my shoes if that happened? It is not going to, by the way.

The reason I’m writing is, and I hate to mention it, but that cheque you wrote has been, ahem, bounced as the vernacular would have it. Couldn’t spare some actual cash could you old boy?

Yours truly, David.

PS: If you see Boris anywhere near Whitehall grinning like a red faced baboon with its finger up its arse, [lease kick him in the bollocks?

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22nd April 2016 Dear George, I sometimes think I'm dreaming.

Barack and Michelle are popping over for a chat and a bit of supper. Sam's beside herself with joy at the thought and has sent the maid out on a shopping spree in Knightsbridge. We can't run short of the good stuff can we? By the way, have you seen the price of quails' eggs at Fortnum's? Bloody liberty if you ask me, must have a word with the chap at the helm, after all we buy enough to warrant a nice little discount don't you think? And I'm not having any of that 'it's a chav tax' nonsense from him. Christ, your average spotty, heroin infected chav would be as likely to be in the market for a quail's egg as I would be for plastic dog turds.

As the wicket is turning a bit sticky for our 'in' campaign, I thought Barack could say a few nice words while he was here. I was chuffed when he agreed, but imagine my surprise at his price. There is always a price as you know. I'd always thought him a decent cove despite his obvious ethnic linkages to the dark continent. A decent legal education in the Ivy league should have sorted out any light fingered tendencies his sort often engage in. As they say once a Lawyer, always a conniving, behind your back, fingers in your till, invoice inflating Shylock.

I have to give him his due though, he extorts with such charm (note to self - find out who his PR chap is). So in return for a few words attacking the self serving shite bags in the Brexit camp, I've sold off Cornwall, the nice bits of Devon and first dibs on Surrey. I retained the rights to Rock mind you, I'm not a complete maniac.

Sam nearly wet herself, literally, when I mentioned Cornwall being handed over to the yanks.

I had to hastily remind her that other than Rock most of the rest of the county is a shithole poisoned by the spoil heaps of arsenic, copper and tin. Did you know there is no IKEA down there, even Greggs have given the the place a wide berth. The yokels will not notice as they are too busy shagging the cows, drinking industrial strength cider or falling down mine shafts to worry about their new ownership. Charles will kick up a bit of a fuss if he finds out, but he will not find out will he? Hush hush! Trelawny's army are, in any case, about as politically literate as a gin sodden whore in a barracks with only half the self control.

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The blond bombshell Johnson is beside himself with glee wrapped up as fury at what Barack had to say about the EU. Gives him another platform to show off to the media. Anyone would think he has designs on the leadership. Give him enough rope and he'll tie his testicles to a runaway train or a berserker with a machete. If you should see him around the House, crush his balls under a steel toecapped boot will you?

Pip pip David.

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13th October 2016 Dear George,

How are you old chap? I’m sitting here, toes in the pool, and warming my bones in the jolly old Maldivian sun, and just as the second plop of the ice in the G and T settles, I think of dear old you.

I note that the “Torygraph”, I know I shouldn’t but I do still giggle at that, is putting it about that you’ve gone to ground, not been seen since, well you know, and that a sighting of you is as rare as an oiled up spanking in St Theresa’s inner office. So ‘whats’s up’ (as they say in Brixton).

Has ‘Madame La Garde’ offered you a post at the IMF, has the World Bank called? Did those nice chaps from Beijing come through with that ‘investment’? I bumped into Tony on my way here, sends his regards by the way, and among the commiserations on the result he slipped in a mention of that directorship if your still interested? Cherie gave him a hard stare at that but I know who wears the trousers in that relationship. So, give him a call, you’ve still got his number? If not, call my people, I’ll let them know its you. I’ve had to field any number of crank calls recently so use the password: ‘Brexit’.

I always chuckle at that.

Well, nearly always.

I can’t tell you what a relief its been to leave all the hurly burly behind in London. Sam’s much happier now that’s there’s no need to ‘meet and greet’ the great unwashed. Smiling in public was never her forte, never had a need to before I got the top job. At Smythson’s, her talent for luxury was well suited, never a need to kowtow to nobodies. It was in her genes of course, Charles 2nd being an ancestor and Daddy being the 8th baronet of somewhere probably northern. I did feel for her having to smile and nod politely at number 10 tea parties as some blatherer spouted on about the deficit (not you of course!) or the colour of monkeys.

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Mind you, I don’t mind telling you (no names, no pack drill) that all that pent up frustration was taken out rather positively on my downstairs department later.

So, what’s new? Well I can’t tell you how lovely the sunsets are here. Remember that bash we had with Pip Green on his boat offshore at Monaco? You know, the night Cliff was caught with his trousers down with one of Bill and Melinda’s valets? Just being a ‘bachelor boy on holiday’ was his excuse. Anyway, the two of us were up on top deck alone, watching the setting sun, softly singing “jolly boating weather” when all of a sudden the peace was broken suddenly and loudly by the sound of a bucket of vomit spilling into the swimming pool below.

You bet me a tenner it was Prince Andrew who we’d last seen face down, clutching a bottle of fizz, in the lap of a rather exquisite ‘model’ behind the lifeboats. How we laughed when we saw it was actually old pip himself, buck naked skinny dipping, doing back stroke, his old todger in full view the size of rain soaked maggot, only smaller. No wonder Mrs Pip gets a decent bonus from the BHS business. I bet that’s the only way he can now satisfy her.

Oh, how we laughed.

How we laughed.

Back then.

Righto. Old chap must dash, the fizz doesn’t open itself and Sam is getting a bit, well y’know.

Happy days!

Pip pip,

Dave

ps Boris? He’s taking the piss.

(The EU referendum saw Cameron resign).

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16th October 2016

‘Maldives’ Dear George, The sun is still shining over here, my word it is rather splendid. Why oh why did we not organise a few more jollies in this direction instead of shlepping it over to Frau Merkel's in the sodding rain of a damp February morning? I’m sure the Maldivians would have been interested in hearing about our plans to adapt to climate change, what with most of their land being lower than the ethical standards of Trump in a brothel. Speaking of whom, the fillies here are rather, well, suitably pleasing on the eye in that dusky way of theirs. I don't mind telling you, a rather pretty little thing brought breakfast this morning and I have to confess, I rather thought of a decent spanking, but not the sort we were used to back in the old days?

Gosh, I do think the sun is rather working havoc with the old hormones.

So whats up with Blighty now that St. Theresa’s been given the keys to the money ‘printing presses’? I know you never believed that bullshit about austerity, but I think her blessed Saintness did not get the irony in Cabinet when we talked about budget deficit reduction. I should have known that her blank face was not due to a lack of sense of humour, although God knows she is about as much fun as one’s morning ablutions following a hot chilli wings competition in Walsall, no it was because…and bugger me with a pineapple, she was taking us seriously when we said “there is no money”. Christ, what the blue fuck does she think money actually is? Does she think the Treasury is stuffed to the gunnels with dubloons, shekels and gold sovereigns? Did she really believe that to bail out the NHS you have to actually go running down Whitehall with a wheelbarrow stuffed full of gold coins to Richmond House like some demented Pirate in a Treasure burying race in which the loser donates a still attached testicle to a rabies crazed crocodile? It's one of the few things I regret in leaving office. We should have made it clearer we were only joking, it seems we should have spelled it out. Austerity was for keeping the plebs in check, not for putting one’s granny out on the street because some tosser in a local authority paid the rent for a jihadi inclined immigrant in Barking (or some such). No more money for the NHS? What! You must be livid. We were always going to bail out the NHS, but you were keeping that until 2020.

Weren't you?

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Perhaps we are getting her all wrong, perhaps it's the same tactic. Scare the living bejesus out of the lower orders and then pull it out, rabbit like, just before the next election? I just was saying to one of the medics Sam and I employ just the other day, that all would be well with the NHS. The poor would always be looked after. Granted, they might have to wait a bit longer in AE and for cancer care…but not all cancers are quick killers anyway. A bit of wait would do some of them good. They’d get a sense of the value they are getting for free as they wait and reflect on what damn fine value is the NHS. Rupert (M..not old Prince Rupert zu Loewenstein who sadly passed away - god he could throw a bash) says the middle classes like to use insurance anyway. We do so as a matter of course for just about everything else, so it's just a bit of molly coddling that they need to be weaned off.

Like a piglet off a teat.

Except we should use a taser to their gonads to do the job. Sometimes I fucking hate the middle class. At least the working class know they are swivel eyed goonbuckets with a penchant for a supersize bucket of KFC, duty free cigarettes and celebrity wankfests passed off as chat shows, dancing and the culinary arts which feature handling a bag of flour and a whisk as the summit of their pathetic achievement (don’t tell Sam I said that, chuffed to bits when she won of course, but its not international diplomacy, nuclear physics or organising an orgy in a nunnery for the over sixties celebrant). The middle class? Fuck ‘em. You know those country suppers back in old Chipping Norton? We had fun with Jezzer and Tony (before that little incident on Top Gear involving a steak, baby oil and a well greased dildo). I always thought Cherie came across as bit of jumped up middle class tart, y’know the sort. Called to the Bar, and thinks she’s mother bloody Theresa (the dead one, not her blessed saintliness now at the helm).

Oh, I know you won’t tell, but my chap found this headed paper in my luggage as he unpacked. Shame to waste it. Hilary’s emails? now thats a piss take.

Pip pip, Dave PS. Boris. The bastard, I always knew he’d written two very different articles on Brexit. Et Tu Boris? Whats latin for ‘Cunt’?

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23rd October 2016

‘Maldives’

Dear George,

Yes, yes, dear chap, I’m still here, and you should be as well. I can’t tell just how lovely the sunsets are especially after a decent G and T by the poolside. I could really get to like this. By the way, did you get your chaps to see to the mess in your hallway after that particularly foul issue with the sewage outflow? It must have been quite a bore to have been contacted in the middle of night at your little ‘pied a terre' in Knightsbridge to then to be told that there was a pretty rank smell in your house in, which one is it now? Oh, never mind…and worse, that Boris was not to to blame this time.

Couldn’t resist that little joke.

I hear St Theresa is getting little miffed with the Troika she set up to handle the negotiations for, you know what. Well what did she expect? Her decision was akin to letting loose three starving dogs in a butcher’s shop and then expecting them to conjure up a Beef Wellington good enough for Heston fucking Blumenthal’s great Aunt Bessy (she of the Yorkshire puddings). Yes they know about meat, but they are hardly likely to go about the business with any finesse, forethought or familiarity with common decency. There will be blood, most of it theirs as they gorge on what remains of the sausage called the British Economy. I hear the Bank’s trade union spokesman is bluffing on about them taking their cash to the gnomes of Frankfurt or some other ghastly place. Her Saintedness had better get round there quick, flash a bit of tit, and make sure the bastards stay put. Christ the hours you and I spent in wining and dining the c*nts, for that is what they will be if they now desert you all in your hour of need. I lost count of the number of dinner jackets my chaps had to pop down to Savile Row to replace, and the interminal caviar stains like adolescent jizz down my shirt front. Not often I feel cheap as you know old boy, but by Eton’s fell waters, they could spend. I remember one

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chap, don’t remember if it was Chase, JP’s or Goldman’s, telling about buying a nice little property in Scotland for the weekend shooting. I thought he meant a country pile, like Sam’s pater’s, but bugger me he meant Perth and Kinross. All in secret of course, couldn't let the Sweaties know. Bought it off a chap from China after a thrilling game of ‘chase the monkey’ in Gleneagles.

I didn’t know monkeys would wear gimp masks, but what do I know? Funny what you pick up at dinners in the City.

Well I hope she’s happy. Phil ‘face like a slapped tit’ Hammond is the only one in the whole bloody outfit who has the slightest clue whats going on, but he is as about as affective as a row of daisies grown especially for stopping a panzer division on their way to a ‘lets kick the shit out of anything in our way festival’ during the glory days of the blitzkrieg. The troika will tie him up in knots and whip his testicles till they bleed his heart dry. They’ll have fun doing it while the City turns the currency into shite where the pound is worth no more than a polo (mint - not the car).

Sam’s preparing tonight’s dinner. Thankfully she brought the decent caterers with her this time, you know the ones. So the fizz is on ice, the oysters shucked and I’m on a promise methinks.

You really must pop over, I hear old Pip Green is at a loose end and might be in need of cheering up. Perhaps he’ll lend you that Lear he keeps near Windsor, tell him the wine is rather good, even over here.

Pip pip, Dave

PS. Boris asked for demonstrators outside the Russian embassy, I assume he sold his shares in Gazprom then?

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Boris Johnson

Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson writer, and former journalist serving as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and Leader of the Conservative Party since 2019. He was Foreign Secretary from 2016 to 2018 and Mayor of London from 2008 to 2016.

Having won the GE of 12th December 2019, Johnson is leading the Brexit charge and signalled the end of spending cuts. In these letters, we writes to such as Donald Trump, to Jeremy Corbyn‌and of course to Dominic Cummings, who some see as the puppet master.

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26th October 2019 Dear Mr Jones, May I call you Eddie? The Edster? The Slayer of Kiwi? ‘Sir’ Eddie (only joking.. Or am I?).

Many many congratulations on today’s super win against the Mighty All Blacks, ‘et in gloria, nobis vincimus’, as my old housemaster used to say in the shower room with the boys after a good game of rugger. Why he was in the shower, when he did not play I shall never know.

Whatever, I digress.

I never doubted for a second that this would be the result, and I must say, um.. er, yes fantastic…and yes, we won, we won! Churchill would have been proud of sticking one up the colonists be they white, black, brown or any shade of piccaniny. I’ve said all along that what we need is faith, spirit and belief and we can achieve anything. I’d like to think my own heroics off the field, kicking the Brexit ball closer to the EU try line, has had some small but also significant positive effect for our sporting heroes. I think we can, er rejoice…yes rejoice in our joint ‘magnus opus in agro pugnatum’.

Good luck for next Saturday, if there is anything I can do…..?

See you for a post match beer when you get back?

Yours Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson – or ‘Boris’ to his chums.

PS Cummings is currently pissing in the Welsh Pool.

(Eddie Jones, England Ruby coach after beating the All Blacks).

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27th October 2019 Dear Jeremy, As the leader of Her Majesty’ opposition, or in this case ‘principis plebs’, as my old housemaster used to shout pointing to the head boy in the tuck shop queue. Why he was in the queue himself was never established as he had the full run of the staff dining room.

Perhaps he was just fond of the boys? Anyhoo.

I would just like to reiterate ‘mutatis nil desperandum’ that I am ready for a full on slogging match at the dispatch box or the ballot box should that eventuality arise in the near future.

I’ve never been so ready for a spanking as when nanny caught me with my fingers in the honey jar, chocolate smears around my mouth and a copy of Mayfair opened at a particular willing looking young lady wearing nothing but a smile and some rather fetching frilly underwear.

Of course I’m joking as I will be the one administering the spanking this time.

Tally ho.

Yours Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson – or ‘Boris’ to his chums.

PS Cummings says “Tell him, he’s a c*nt”

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28th October 2019 Dear Norfolk County Council,

May I say I very much admire your fair county, notwithstanding hosting the Monarchy at Sandringham, your countryside provides some of the best views in the country. I’ve always loved the broads and the fenland…yes the fenland with its plethora of windmills, its huge skies and of course, its..um..ditches.

To the matter at hand. It is nearly ‘All Hallows Eve’ and to be honest, ‘Ego Sum Fornicatius per Rectum’ as my old housemaster used to say after several ales in the back bar of ‘The Nanny and Spanker’ in Windsor.

Let’s, er.. um , yes..yes cut to the chase shall we? No more dilly dallying around the subject…

As you no doubt have a surfeit of fenland ditches, would it possible to make one available for me to jump into. Well, not me actually, but a body double just to keep the Trots happy at the Grauniad. I of course will be fathoms up some filly or three, but don’t tell the wife, er um yes, I mean Carrie of course, lovely little thing and dashed spankable, but I digress.

So, if you would by return if possible so that we can ‘in vino veritas’ as soon as.

Yours Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson – or ‘Boris’ to his chums.

PS Cummings said ”Where the f*ck is Norfolk?” But I soon corrected him. Tally ho.

(After his claim that he’d rather die in a ditch than ask for an extension to EU negotiations).

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Confidential 4th November 2019 Dear Dom, My God this is tedious. ‘Ad hominem et tu Brute’ as my old housemaster used to say following release on bail after another drunken foray into the local Spearmint Rhino. Some of the girls were left emotionally scarred while the bouncer had to have surgery to his nose. At least he had the good grace to pay for private health treatment for the over muscled pleb.

You were of course quite correct to point out that many of my colleagues don’t care about the NHS, that they don’t care about the little people and their piffling concerns about access to GPs and waiting times for surgery. Therefore your suggestion of the need to be seen to visit hospitals and promise more of them is sound electioneering old boy. The booing I can take, I’ve heard it all my life, but that little medical student at Addenbrooke’s Cambridge saying it was a PR stunt was a bit much. How did she know? Did someone leak it? Pretty little thing though, any chance of following her up to arrange a ‘private one-to-one’ with the little filly?

Of course, Carrie should not be party to the discussion in case she gets the wrong message and starts shouting (again).

The ‘NHS is safe in our hands’ and is ‘not for sale’, indeed I’ll keep repeating this bollocks until the great unwashed, or enough of them anyway, believe it. Any mention of Trump’s comments or Hunt’s visits with the Yanks a few years ago are to be denied.

Yours Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson – or ‘Boris’ to his chums.

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Confidential 8th November 2019 Dear Jacob, Oh dear. That turned out to be a car crash did it not? “Felinius es ex Sacculi” as my old housemaster used to say after being overheard discussing the finer points of sodomy after dinner in the Carlton.

Look, we all know that most people are stupid, the ‘bottom cornflakes’ who could no more rise to the top of the packet than a turd in the grease and fag stained toilet in a seedy back street Scottish pub could rise as the sun upon a new golden age. It’s not your fault, the truth will sometimes slip out. That dunce, Budget? Bredger? Should have just kept his quisling grammar school gob shut rather than trying to explain away the obvious.

The great unwashed are just not ready for the truth. We, the guardians of the nation’s treasury and moral rectitude, must play clever and not just be clever. It was of course unfortunate that Grenfell went up as it did, but well done for not falling into the trap of discussing housing policy, council cuts or building regulations. You successfully put the spotlight back onto the people, and at the same time reminded them who the clever ones are.

Yours Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson.

PS Dom says “f*ck ‘em” (after Jacob Rees Mogg said it was just ‘common sense’ to leave a burning building, referring to Grenfell residents)

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9th November 2019 Dear Vladimir, “Dolce et decorum est” as my old housemaster used to say before administering a good caning to any boy who had the temerity to question his ability to teach.

It is a little inconvenient that our chaps in the Intelligence Committee have written a report into the possibility that your chaps have been up to something involving cash, votes, cyber stuff and Brexit.

Our two countries have not always seen eye to eye, that is true. In this instance, however, I consider the close relationship we have nurtured necessarily in secret will reap rewards counted in the billions. I am being pressed into publishing the report before December 12th, but rest assured our little secret will remain so.

Meanwhile, may I personally thank you for the top-notch vodka, the caviar and the use of your Dacha. I must say I found that dashed pretty little thing Svetlana most ‘comforting.’ She did things with her tongue and middle finger and that would make even a Russian bear blush, lubrication notwithstanding.

Yours Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson.

PS Dom says don’t worry, we’ll “Get Brexit Done” for you.

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Confidential 12th November 2019 Dear Dom, “Ipso facto delirium” as my old housemaster used to say to no one in particular after a few after session ales in the ‘Dog and Bastard’ in Windsor.

I note that a few troublesome academics have been at it ‘studying’ again, trying to undermine the ‘jew-hater’ stuff we’ve been putting about with our friends in the press. Thankfully, a few ‘facts’ do not appear to be troubling the conscience of the great thick unwashed in their concrete hovels or leafy suburbs. Their book ‘Bad News for Labour’ detailing the sloppy journalism, and bias in the media, has been sidelined and ignored. And our Russian connections have been put to bed. Who do they think we are, Cold War warriors?

But it was with a little dismay that I have been accused of covering up our Russian friends’ associations as well as stirring up the jew stuff and flinging it about like a Scotsman flings his tartan testicles around during a highly vigorous sword dance at the Palace. In reply, I’m thinking of giving a short press release, which goes like this: “I’m sorry, did I understand that you were appealing to my conscience? Point One. There is actually only one point actually. I don’t give a fart. The difference between me and others is I admit it. If a horde of piccaninnies with watermelon smiles and a six-inch knife – yes I said piccaninnies – stab each other tomorrow, great news by me. If a billionaire makes another billion on the back of the tax breaks I give ‘em, fine by me. Government used to understand that, if they’ve gone soft, tough titty on them. Point Two. Question: heard what the tobacco boys are up to these days? Flogging off high toxic tobacco to the fuzzy-wuzzies and telling ’em it makes ‘em horny and cures the common cold. Tobacco boys give a fart? Sit at home having nervous breakdowns about spreading lung cancer among the natives? The fuck they do. Heard what the property developers are up to? Buying up land, hoarding it until the price is right, and building investments for the ultra-rich in Saudi or Russia. They give a stuff about the knocked up bint on a council estate who can’t afford to pay the rent? Do they fuck. Take

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the fast-food boys stuffing their products with fat, sugar and calories, piling it high and selling it cheap. If willing seller is doing business with willing buyer who does not have the common sense to shop at Waitrose, bloody good luck to ‘em. If drugs don’t kill ‘em, the atmosphere will, or they’ll get barbecued by global warming.

I’m British and rather proud of it. Also rather proud of one’s school. Empire man. Happens to be the tradition one’s inherited. When people get in one’s way, I break ‘em or fuck ‘em if they are wearing a skirt. Discipline is rather up one’s tree too, actually. Order. Can’t make money with disorder in the streets. Accepting one’s responsibilities of one’s class and education, and beating the foreigner at his own game.

Pompous, you are thinking. Alright. I’m pompous. but I’ve a right to be. I’m just that little bit cleverer, a little bit more ruthless and a little bit more charismatic. Fuck you. I’m a top cornflake, an Alpha, I’m Pharaoh. Right? If a few thousand prols have to die so that I can build this pyramid, that’s nature. And if they make me die for their fucking pyramid, bloody good on ‘em.

Know what I’ve got in my cellar? Iron Rings. Rusty iron rings built into the walls when the house was built. Know what they are for? Slaves. That’s nature too. Original owner of the house, that man owned slaves and had his slave quarters in the cellar of the house. How the actual fuck do you think Bristol. Liverpool and London got built? Think there are not slaves today? Think Capital does not rely on wage slaves? Jesus Christ on a bike! One doesn’t normally talk philosophy, but I’m afraid one doesn’t like being preached to either. Won’t have it you see? One does have a rather view of nature; one gives work to people and one takes one’s share…and if I have to smear the opposition with a thick sticky veneer of jew hating excrement to keep doing it, then I will. Its dog eat dog and the devil take the hindmost”.

What do you think, Radio 4 or BBC Breakfast?

Yours

Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson.

PS Jacob thinks this is terrific.

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13th November 2019 Dear ‘Sir’ Nigel, Sir? Hah! Only kidding…but you must admit it has a ring to it?

‘Delirium in Quim extant’ as my old housemaster used to say in his defence at his annual court appearance to face charges of ‘The misapplication of corporal punishment with relish and lubrication’.

To business. Our great friend and ally across the pond, has suggested we work together to crush marxism and to bring about a free market tax-exempt utopia here in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and America. I understand that you have visited him on numerous occasions and quite understand the motives of the man, and so you will be well placed to work with us, not against us, on our ‘Stuff the Frenchy’ endeavour. Your one and only published policy which aligns with ours of “Get Brexit Done” is one that resonates with our core voters, be they Tweed suited Old Empire Colonel Blimps in the Shires or the rabid faced Gammons in the North. Keep drinking those pints and smoking those cigarettes old boy, it goes down as well with the unwashed as does a coked-up rent boy in the toilets in the Carlton club.

The dream ticket – Me, You and the Donald. What could possibly go wrong? Dom says that all we have to do is tell a few ‘pussy’ jokes – talk about piccaninnies, apologise (they won’t notice) and then wink at the skirt in the crowd at rallies. They love it. Remember, never ever discuss policies except in the vaguest of terms such as our promise to provide “a few of your favourite things” such as rainbows and roses, peanut butter on toast, and to uphold ‘freedom’.

By the way, you might want to control some of your colleagues, I’m thinking of those with as much grip on reality as a doubly incontinent god-bothering fruitcake with a penchant for licking the flies off a three-day old dog turd and who has the gracefulness of a saddleback sow in a slurry pit.

You know who I mean (wink).

Yours Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson.

PS Dom thinks you are a c*nt, but he’s ok really.

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26th November 2019 Dear Donald, ‘E Pluribus Unem’ as my old housemaster used to say after several ales in the back bar of ‘The Nanny and Spanker’ in Windsor.

Well, bugger me senseless, its working! You were right. The old adage is true about truth and its boots. Being somewhat loose with the actualité is both liberating and useful. The ends justify the means eh? By the time the duffers at Factcheck get around to it, we have already pretended to be them, got our issue on the agenda, and everyone talking about the ‘dead cat’ thats just been flung into the room.

I’ve not had to defend our record or have our plans scrutinised because they are all talking about fake videos, fake twitter accounts and duffers like Nicky Morgan looking like a coked up rabbit with a loose anus staring into the lights of an oncoming freight train, and blathering bollocks about nurse numbers which are clearly false. It does not matter, it really does not. I’m 12 points in the lead and no one seems to care!

I’m going on NewsNight later to talk about ‘pussy grabbing’, except I’ll use a more Anglicised term such as ‘gusset sniffing’. I cannot thank you enough for leading the way. I need some pussy right now methinks in celebration (don’t tell Carrie..wink).

Yours

Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson.

PS Give Vlad my regards…great job!

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10th December 2019 Dear Laura, Well, that was a bit, er..um. Yes well. “In delirium tremens est rectum” as my old housemaster used to say in the School’s wine cellar after being caught with his trousers down with a glossy magazine in one hand and his pulsing organ in the other. A good sort nonetheless.

I never do like being caught by journalists with awkward questions and a few pictures. I should know, I made up a few stories in my time and helped arrange for a duffing up of a rather too inquisitive chap. But, I should care, really, about a child on the floor at some pleb’s hospital dedicated to the healing of the indigent, the rancid and the moral equivalent of the underclass’s skid marked undies? One moment of distraction and everyone goes all ‘sermon on the mount’ on my arse. Look, we had to cut the deficit, to stop uppity unions and the grubby working class from getting organised. You and I both know that private health insurance is the way to go, and if the odd patient should spend a few nights sleeping in a skip, instead of being in the tender care of a bit of totty nurse, that should be lesson that the NHS is indeed better off in private hands.

That video clip made it look like I did not care. Spot on. I was thinking about you in a nurse’s uniform of starched white apron, black stockings, bending over with a cheeky grin and short skirt, pouting “Go on Boris, Get Laura Done. Unleash the potential of Johnson’s Johnson” .

Thats why I did not look at the bloody picture.

Yours in anticipation and with thanks, Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson.

PS Dom thinks you are a hot, and on Friday would like to meet up for a ‘drink’ (if you get my drift).

(Laura Keunssberg - the BBC political Correspondent and alleged Tory sympathiser).

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Confidential 13th December 2019 Dear Donald, ‘In aqua et vagina victoriam’’ as my old housemaster used to say after several ales in the back bar of ‘The Nanny and Spanker’ in Windsor.

Just thought I’d run my victory speech past you, as I so admire your erudition and clarity and wit.

“Good morning Britain! Well we have only gone and done it. May I thank all of the ‘angels in marble’ who came out to vote for us following a hard fought campaign. I may have avoided interviews, hiding in fridges, being replaced by ice sculptures but you, the Great British public will not be fooled. You do not need detailed statistics, which quite frankly are quite boring.

Instead you trust me when I make my promises to you. If say 50,000 more nurses, that is all you need to know. Simple is it not?

I would also like to thank the owners and editors of the Sun, Express, Mail, Telegraph and Times and even the Guardian for their relentless and tireless campaign over the last three years to discredit Corbyn. You were not held back by trivia such as validity – you clearly stated your core values and successfully applied labels such as extremist, marxist and terrorist antisemite without blushing. You also relentlessly targeted immigrants and other ne’er do wells over the decades, in order to safeguard our white christian heritage.

I’d like to thank the broadcast media for their support and lack of tiresome scrutiny over piffling details, for which I am eternally grateful. I’d like to praise you all for accepting without question my assumptions and prejudices which some wilfully label ‘bourgeois’ but which I think are common sense. A special thanks to Laura for her sneering at Corbyn.

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A special mention must go to my billionaire friends who continue to bankroll our party.

Without you we could not pay for all of the ‘information’ and cultural messages we put out there.

I’d like to thank Dom for coming up with the strategy of ‘bore them to death with ‘Get Brexit done’ a slogan so devoid of meaning and yet so easy to just keep repeating until they glaze over. The last three years may have been tricky but they at least laid the foundation for the public’s complete and utter boredom and frustration over Brexit.

I’d like to thank Jacob Rees-Mogg for staying at home under the duvet counting his money and to Govey for not being too much of a c*nt.

To the working class in the North and Midlands who have lent me your vote. Without your alienation and disengagement and distrust of all politicians over the last three decades I could not have sold you the idea that I, a privileged Etonian, have your interests at heart and that all of your experiences are the EU’s faults and of course of those “coming over here….”

Special thanks goes to Blair and Brown, and their New Labour project, and their acolytes still in the Labour Party, for without your failures to address working class concerns we would not be able to argue that we are the answer. Your continued belligerence from within Labour to completely undermine Corbyn at every turn is gratefully received.

I’d like to thank the concept of ‘globalised neoliberalism’ for being so obtuse that no one knows what it means, so that when jobs and work become ‘flexible’ simply no one understands, except to think that it a ‘good thing’ To the Great British Public. I’d like to thank you for accepting our story about the Labour Party crashing the Economy in 2010 while forgetting it was caused by the financial sector. I’d like to thank Jonathan Haidt for reminding us to tap into deep seated fears and to stoke up feelings about authority, sanctity and loyalty to the Crown, Empire and the social hierarchy.

To non voters, nearly 33% of you, I am most grateful you could not be bothered. So a special mention to apathy, alienation, disillusionment, disengagement and distrust.

To the Remain camp – your splits and divisions have been most helpful. Your vote share was higher than mine but you clearly managed to split it between you. Many thanks indeed. To Jo

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Swinson…f*ck me, what a blinder….fabulous line about you being PM and unilaterally going for Remain without a vote. Have you ever been to Workington?

To my friends in the Brexit Party. What a masterstroke, you managed to do two seemingly impossible things. You were both unattractive enough (some of you literally unattractive) to send Hard Brexit votes my way, while also being sufficiently attractive to receive votes from Hard Brexit Labour voters. Brilliant. It’s as if you offered a dog turd that looked like both a dog turd or a walnut whip depending on what light you shone on it.

To Jeremy Corbyn. Your naïveté in thinking that being a decent human being, is enough and that charisma is not essential. I thank you for not being on ‘Have I Got News For You” and for your past attempts at peace making and standing up for Palestinian rights was a total gift to those who can spin this into disloyalty and treason. Also for not telling us to f*ck off over the Jew stuff, we knew it was bollocks but we played it anyway.

Finally I’d like to thank the First Past the Post system for delivering a majority of the seats on a minority of the votes. Along with the Brexit Party we gained 45.6% of the votes cast, while the remainers got 49.5% ! Brilliant. So on 29% of all voters we get a big majority.

To Britain, “you’re my wife now”.

Yours

Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson.

On 12th December 2019 Johnson’s Tories won the Election with a majority of 80 seats.

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19th January 2020 Dear Dom. Mustique. Oh how my old housemaster would have loved it there, if only he could have curtailed his twice weekly felching trips to Soho. “Semper quivering, boy, semper quivering… never forget!” He’d whisper in the snug in the ‘Nanny and Spanker’ in rain soaked Windsor.

After the election, a jolly old bit of R and R in the sunshine has done me the power of good.

Carrie made me put away the phone, and I did not bother with the papers or the Beeb. I was then able to relax, soak up the sun and think of new ways of using the broken dreams of stupid Northerners in my next campaign. My God you should have seen the beaches here…

The problems of Workington are as welcome a thought as a festering polyp on my penis during the saturnalia festivities at the Bullingdon, so thank goodness I have…er, whose the Home Secretary? Patel?, to take care of things back home.

Now, to business. What’s occurring?

We have to get Brexit done, or some-such. I trust you’ve briefed the Cabinet on their roles? I want to reiterate my position on this. I am the figurehead, the lightening rod if you will. I will say what is required at times to the journos, but the detail I'll leave to those who give a fuck.

I heard a whisper or something about Iraq? Iran? Raab is on it I trust? Keep an eye on him, he is as useful as a dead cat in a rusty fire bucket. I’d trust him about as far as I’d trust Jimmy Saville at a 1970’s children’s summer camp in Llandudno. Raab’s got the look of something sharp and pointy in the night about him. So, Iran or Iraq…or Indonesia? Let me know.

Saj is on top of the budget…so thats’s foreign, home and money taken care of.

Cont…

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I am apt to wonder what the fuss was about being PM. Being surrounded by the likes of the Saj, Raab and Priti “you looking at me?” Patel, makes the job a piece of piss actually.

What else is there? Gove? What is he up to? Polishing that arsehole he uses for a mouth no doubt. Mind, I mustn’t complain, I’ve got staff, advisors, the internet and Carrie and her ilk to ease the troubles of the day away. Life is quite peachy right now. We’ve killed socialism stone dead for a decade or perhaps permanently, we’ve got the yanks offering the greatest trade deal, ever. Oh, give H and M a call will you, give them my regards, Was rather fond of M, she was welcome in any of my ‘suits’ at any time.

So. Is that it? Anything else I should be taking a look at? Australia?

Mustique. “if you like piña coladas” *sigh* Pip pip

Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson

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