Brexit promises evaporate. The hot, wet lie-farts of the liar Boris Johnson, trapped in the glamping yurt of his trousers since last year’s referendum, are now contained no more. Europa leans forward decisively, pulls down the foreign secretary’s pants, and sets his foul gases free. And guess what? They stink. I write on Wednesday backstage…
With counterintuitive brilliance, the Conservatives have assembled a cabinet full of the same ashen-faced misfits voters already rejected. They have wrecked a failing pub in an insurance flood and rebuilt it, not as flats or a leisure centre, but as an identical failing pub. Johnson, Hunt and Gove. It’s as if DC Comics, having mislaid…
Wake up and smell the covfefe and tell the spinning corpse of Robin Day the news. The old politics is over. This election is no longer a choice between left and right, between traditional working-class or middle-class allegiances, between self-interest and concern for others. It is a new kind of choice. It is a choice…
Last Wednesday our chief Brexiter Boris Johnson dressed up in a Sikh costume to visit a Bristol gurdwara. There he told the alcohol-abstaining supplicants to take bottles of Johnnie Walker to Indian relatives to speed post-Brexit booze exports, leading one to comment that had he made that suggestion in India the foreign secretary would have…