“Dave. I’m out.”

Boris turned, his magnificent equine outline silhouetted against the Westminster floor-lights. He neighed and threw his head back, expecting his forelock to swoosh between his ears. But the PR boys had insisted on trimming his mane before the ‘spontaneous media scrum’ to announce his decision. Well, at least they hadn’t roached it. He neighed again, and the forelock remained unmoved. Finally, he trotted away down Millbank. Dave watched him for a few seconds in a reverie, but managed to pull himself away from this vision before they could see him turn off into Pimlico.

Dave couldn’t help but be torn by his feelings for Boris. Oh, Boris. The old friend, the old rival. The intemperate fool, the unqualified genius. The blundering buffoon, the calculating vizier. But vizier to whom? To himself? To the Tory Party? Certainly not to Dave. Yes, Dave was scared of him. He always had been intimidated by him. Even in his Bullingdon days he had always been top dog. Top Bully-Boy. Top banter maniac.

Yes, it’s true. And let me be clear: I wanted to be top dog. I wanted to be top Bully-Boy. Lord knows I had worked for it. I deserved it. But Boris just always had something funny rolled up his sleeve, whether it was a whoopee cushion or a withering reference to Euripides. I hated him for it. But by the very same token, and just like everybody else, I loved him for it. He kept making me and everybody else laugh, that nasty little joker. Oh, how I remember that time we spent an entire afternoon taunting that young fellow with quotes from Pindar. Of course, most of us just had one or two, but little Boris had hundreds. Little Boris, the big beast. And then he moved, quite obliquely and yet somehow seamlessly, onto Thrasymachus. And thence Adeimantus! The blustering cheek of it!

The beggar chap didn’t have the foggiest what Boris was talking about as we sat by the Cherwell that day. You know, I seem to remember that he thought we were being friendly. He may have even offered us a can of Special Brew. Disgusting stuff of course. I believe I took it from him, more for his own good than anything else. These fellows do need some protection now and then, you know. And I am a considerate man, you understand, Big Society and all that. Anyhow, I still had some rather good brandy waiting for me when I got home, so I believe I threw the scum’s scum in the river. Sinful, perhaps. We really shouldn’t litter, and I’ve learnt from my mistake that day. But getting back to the point, Boris was magnificent. And unfortunately, he remains so.

Boris’s outline returned to Dave’s mind. He noticed his cnidocyte sacs swelling and becoming somewhat turgid. He adjusted his condom slightly.

But I don’t want all this to end up in his hooves. Everything I’ve built. This great country, our Britannia, with its grand history of achievement and aspiration, of power and liberalism, and yes, even altruism and magnanimity. This great country, in its modern iteration of growth and efficiency, marrying all that is great from the past with all that is required from the present, and jettisoning the rest like so many poorly performing workers. All built by me, by me! And only to be potentially destroyed by Boris the buffoon. But how can I stop it going to little Boris? How can I guide my creation into the sage and safe hands of George, just like I said I would all those years ago?


Dave’s twenty-four eyes narrowed.

Well, we’ll just have to win the fucking vote, won’t we? And make the fucker regret being on the wrong side. And let me be clear: if that means allowing young and competent people from the rest of Europe to work here and support our great economy while supporting themselves, then so be it. At least we won’t be supporting them to do so any more, because that would clearly be wrong.

Fuck you, Boris. Fuck you.

And Saint Maggie, if you’re listening, please help. Please. Maggie? Mags? Please?