The Bard on the awful Boris
Fool Britannia
So it came to the last stand. Around the high walls of the keep, the massed armies of the Media gather and hoot and call names. The Convict! The Greased Piglet! They call for his head. Johnson of Khartoum holds resolute. Many times before he has evaded the gruesome fates of lesser mortals. A Man for the Ages! Stay firm, Johnson, he mutters to himself, and splashes cold water on his face. Yet as the siege stretches on for long brutal months, as the pile of bodies from the plague grows high beyond the walls, and the pile of bottles out the back grows higher still, outside the mob grows ever stronger. He scans it with binoculars, and sees them all: the natives, the French, the Germans, the Scots, the Northerners, the Little People, and even a few familiar faces from his own personal staff. Could this be the end? He sends a proposition to the Media and suggests a power sharing arrangement; Johnson will continue as Governor of Khartoum for seven months, but surrender leadership of the Pink Gin Luncheon Club. The Media return the messenger lopped and with a rude message attached. Wrapped in his Union Jack jumpsuit, Johnson turns to address his loyal lieutenants one final time, but the once grand hall is empty save for some empty glasses rolling on the dirty flagstones. Outside the great doors, the clamour of the mob grows louder and louder again. Johnson of Khartoum, lonely General of a last outpost of Empire, wishes to Remain; but now must finally Brexit. Victor Billot has previously felt moved to compose Odes for such luminaries as the Prime Minister, Louise Wallace, Mike Hosking, Clarke Gayford, Brian Tamaki, and Garrick Tremain.
