The secret diaries of Bumbling Boris Johnson

The secret diaries of Boris Johnson

July 14


Rough as a badger’s arse this morning… just woken up. What was I drinking last night? What was I celebrating? Vague recollection of being in Number 10 and Theresa lecturing me about having to knuckle down now and stop insulting foreigners…why was she doing that…like I was a naughty schoolboy. Pompous cow… acting like the head teacher now she’s PM. Never liked the woman.

Oh my head… I don’t what I was celebrating but it must have been good. Theresa said something about me doing an important job…fucked if I can remember what it was… probably rousing the party faithful with some of my charisma… all I’m good for now I suppose. Shouldn’t have trusted Gove. Mea Culpa. Mea Culpa


Fucking hell! That Laura Kuenssberg woman from the BBC just phoned me… asked what it was like being Foreign Secretary… fucked if I know I said… then there was strange pause and she laughed, somewhat unconvincingly. “What will be your main priorities,” she said. “Get back into bed and sleep of this hangover… now piss off.”

“Oh Boris,” she said. “You’re such a character.”

Anyway, it went on like that for a bit… all very confusing, but… long story short… turns out I’m Foreign Fucking Secretary… it eventually started coming back once Kuenssberg phoned… that’s what I was celebrating last night… that’s why I was in Number 10… why Theresa was being all head mistressy…

Foreign Secretary… didn’t see that baby coming… but I have to admit I’ve always admired Theresa… wonderful woman and such a good judge of character… anyway, suppose I better sober up… you never know, I might have to actually do something.


Oh joy! How my cup runneth over… just had a shower to get rid of all the cycle sweat I build up… particularly bad around the armpits… anyway, just thinking things couldn’t’ get much better when I switch on the radio and hear backstabber Gove has got the sack… oh Theresa you little beauty… I think I might fall in love with you.


Just spent 10 minutes looking for my blasted cycle helmet… couldn’t find my bike either… not to worry… turns out the pub landlord wouldn’t let me ride it home because I was so pissed… he put me in a taxi instead… wonderful man… a true gem of the British working class… the kind of man we need to save from Europe… I shall repay his kindness by releasing him from Angela Merkel’s clutches.

Anyway, don’t need the bike anymore… got a shiny chauffeur driven car… well there has to be some perks to the job… a wonderful British Jag… up yours BMW!

Wonder if they’ll let me sit in the front seat.

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Father disgusted with son’s choice of motorway for long journe

The secret diaries of Bumbling Boris Johnson

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