It took a while, but the country has come to its senses. Johnson has been canned.

Or rather, a select committee tee-ed him up, and he fell on his (pork) sword.

Like Phillip Schofield, whom we have not seen for a few days, Phat Phuck has done a runner.

As fagged-out Phil poignantly asked, ‘How much more can a man take?’

A fair bit if he’s trussed up in the sling at the Blue Oyster Bar, dear boy. Just ask the floppy-haired spooge-sponge intern, who’s clearly had his fill.

While the wriggling mince pie apparently can’t bear it, with biker leathers, a big beard, and a few tattoos, he probably could, you know.

Still, while the news was arguably a bummer, Johnson will likely now lap up after-dinner speaking engagements with the same gusto that Schofe will afford a jizz-propelled party popper at Pimlico Pride.

While he might be on his knees for years to come, let’s not have too much sympathy for TV’s finest sword swallower. He dropped a biggie, lied about it, and got caught. Just like Johnson and all the other charlatans who love the publicity and exposure, but only if it’s all on their own terms.

It never is, and ultimately doing a runner never works out.