And one of those is the triple-jabbed boss. Feeling a bit under the weather last Friday, like death warmed up on Saturday and a lateral flow test later she’s another Covid statistic, again.
So the boss, daughter #2 and probably me by the time you’re reading this, are lying low for the next few days– a bit like our Prime Minister, who went to ground after being forced to face the consequences of his own inactions.
In his defence, the lockdown party in Boris Johnson’s garden that he said he didn’t know about, and even if he did he wasn’t there, but then said “Sorry, not sorry” after it turned out that he was, probably didn’t look like much of a party compared to the wild, last days of Sodom bashes he’s accustomed to.
Maybe in time his name will become shorthand for calling someone out for telling a bare-faced lie. “What a load of Boris”, “Stop Borissing and tell me the truth”, “Come off it mate, that’s absolute Boris”, “Who do you think you are, Boris Johnson?” and “Sounds like a cock and Boris story to me”.
Joking aside, this lot were on the ale together while the likes of you and me were burying our relatives who’d died from Covid. Just remember that come election time. And no matter how much Boris tries to shift the blame, and he’ll move mountains to do it, his name’s above the door.
This is what happens when you put a bone-idle party clown in charge who surrounds himself with a bunch of nodding dogs. Talented dissenters were booted out on day one.
Boris might ride it out but if he goes it’ll be by the hands of people he once thought of as friends, the ones now busy circling the wagons to defend the indefensible.
Before any blue rinsers start pointing the finger, this column isn’t anti-Tory. Major did OK in the 90s. But this lot aren’t Tories, they’re totalitarian Parliamentarians. And they’re drinking from a suitcase full of booze in the last chance saloon.