Is he going for a leadership bid? Does he want to get sacked? Is he going to resign? These are just three of the many questions that no one gives a fuck about what the answer is.
He doesn’t fucking care! Think of it this way. If he isn’t in Parliament tomorrow, he’s not going to be worrying about getting fucking sanctioned in a fortnight.
One thing is certain though. Like anyone with half a brain, he probably wants as little to do with the impending cluster fuck that is Brexit as possible.
“Oh, you want to drive that Austin Metro with the shit Union Flag paint job, its fucked engine and no breaks into the bowels of Hades Treeza? Be my guest. Here’s the fucking keys.”
The only thing bigger than the £350 million sum that BoJo insists on repeating more than Only Fools and Horses on Gold is his own fucking ego.
He’s bullshit in a shit, a shit haired albino ape. He’s a fucking Greek restaurant after a Hen do, a Two Fat Ladies secret love child, the fucking bumbling Eton Mess.
He’s a lie spitting bollocks tornado, chaos personified. A fucking tubby unhinged makeup free clown who no one laughs at. He’s a suited unkempt hyper cunt, the fucking walking demic.
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