The sleaze scandal rolls on and on like a freight train container load of toxic waste. Its destination a barely legal northern land fill site inhabited by scavenging vultures and thin hungry jackals who seem unable to avoid lapping up their own vomit and imbibing their own excrement. This is what they mean by ‘levelling up’.
It now costs three million quid for a seat in our Upper House unless you’re one of the PM’s Brexit chums in which you get bunged in for free giving you a ringside seat to the political and economic chaos you have helped to cause. And if you were rejected by the electorate but you happen to be the wealthy son and heir of a disgraced tycoon and you have a luxury villa on the Costa del Crime that you can place at the disposal of our dissolute First Lord of the Treasury, then not only do you get a seat in the Lords but also a place at the Cabinet Table.
Sleaze family Johnson are at it again; old man Johnson has just been accused of molesting one female colleague back in 2003 and another one in 2019. It makes you wonder of there have been any others in between. This is the man who famously beat up his wife and the mother of his children as they slept fitfully in the same room. One of those unfortunate infants, who must surely have been psychologically scarred by these heinous acts of abuse, is the famous ‘Bonker’ himself.
I am referring of course to Fred and Doris Johnson and their eldest son Alexander (known affectionately to his parents and siblings as ‘Bonker’). They live three doors down the street from us in the house with the beat-up old Honda Civic in its front garden.
The Man on the Fence 