As imagined by Brian Beacom

YOU seriously want to know why I’ve been drive-by shooting those thick-as-mince, lazy-as-a-hot summer, self-serving, floppy-haired, former public schoolboys which passes for a government?

Is it revenge? Do I hate Boris as much as Eurovision hates Great Britain? Well, you’re too f***ing right I do. I’m the mutant virus he should be terrified of. Symond’s dog Dilyn pees all over Number 10 but that mutt has nothing on me. I am the God of Hell Fire. I am the bald Arthur Brown.

I need to tell it as it is. Johnson is a shopping trolley with a wonky wheel, wandering all over the shop. He was more bothered about Carrie’s dog than he was about the outbreak of Covid, or when Donald Trump was trying to start World War Three. He would change his mind 10 times a day. This clown was ready to be injected with the ‘Kung Flu’. And he has Byrd’s custard for a conscience.

As for that little lick-spittle Hancock? Wasn’t it great to see him lie to the TV cameras about dumping the unprotected oldies into care homes? Hell, he was sweating more than a fat bloke wearing a duffel coat in a Turkish sauna in August. I’m going to delight in watching that smug little drip’s career melt like a Poundstore candle before my very eyes.

And don’t you Scots start to go all smug. You lot played your part in us being the Covid death capital of Europe. I didn’t hear Nicola cry wolf until she heard the call of political expediency.

Now, some of you single-celled brains may say I’m a data-freak, a swollen-headed, ex-£35k a year public schoolboy hypocrite, because I was part of this team of socially-distanced Oxbridge fud-heads – and that I should have hit the alarm button last February.

But if you remember back to my Durham Castle trip, I have eyesight problems. And the truth is, I couldn’t see then what was in it for me. But those very same eyes, I’ve proved, can shed tears when called to.

What I can see, however, is my Odyssean vision for the world, a blend of science, maths and history in which the odd ball, hoodie-wearing geeks like me run the show; not blue-suited toffs who spend thousands on wallpaper and allow their pals to set up private PPE deals, a herd immune to original thought.

I want absolute power. I want control. Cameron was right when he called me, “A career psychopath.” I’d rather see bodies of politicians piled up in stretchers than see the truth go untold. And bear this in mind; I got us out of Europe, and I can get straw-head out of Downing Street.

And if all of this personal assassination work leads me to land a great book deal – or a film – so much the better.

You lot said I left Downing Street in November “without trace”. Ha! In the words of the great rock gods Bachman-Turner Overdrive, ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet.’