Poise On

While it made the headlines, we did not witness the expected dogpile onto Dominic Cummings in the wake of his apparently premature evacuation. A few expected barbs from our old centre-left faves who momentarily broke away from their Diwali celebrations, and that was about it.

The whole affair is characterised largely by stunned silence: the fact that Johnson chose the moment suggests on the one hand an emboldened PM preparing to regain his poise, and on the other hand a piss-poor opposition who woefully failed to force the issue during the eye-test debacle.

In any event, the quick-fire release of the toxic spermanator was purportedly on the cards after Lee Cain (but not able) had resigned after having been bunged a promotion. Yes, you heard that right, but don’t bother trying to make sense of it. No.10 is one giant onion of intrigue and chaos.

Whatever the ins and outs of it, Dom’s gone under the big, red Brexity bus. And out of the front door with his desk in a box into the bargain. That’s the vicious, Tory knife-twist, right there. It is never enough just to cut somebody off at the legs. They have to make it hurt.

Johnson had reputedly grown disillusioned with the Vote Leave gang who had apparently only been ‘in it for themselves’.


Isn’t that precisely a summary of Johnson’s own political CV?

Ultimately, the incorrigible coaster had likely tumbled that all his legwork people were skiving too. All goofing off on their personal projects while Brexit had stalled, and COVID had gone tragically and ruinously off the rails. And of course, they are all hateful bastards, so not even a silver lining in the looming acid-rain cloud.

The final cherry on the grim cake-and-eat-it cake was the simple unpalatable truth that a growing number of backbenchers had started to look to a 2024 election with a new face at the helm. In fact, just somebody at the helm, full stop, because Johnson is more of a part-time figurehead than a leader.

Still, if the albino gonk has mustered up enough testicular potency to call a spad a spad, perhaps there is a glimmer of hope for democratic government.

Well, not really. This is all about self-preservation.

Mind you, if Cummings as a super-forecaster could not see that his days were numbered, he needed to strap the kid in and get the Rangey off to Barnard Castle again. He’d certainly lost his magic touch, if indeed he had ever had one.

But most significantly, as the maxim goes, special advisors are like poisoners: they are either famous or good at their job.

And that is probably what decided it.

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