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    Boris Johnson was born in a grimy tenement in the poverty-stricken mining community of Henley-on-Thames, the son of a former mine worker and an old English sheepdog. For a kid like Boris there were only two ways out of the mean streets of Henley: crime, and wiff-waff. At first bare-knuckle street wiff-waff in unlicensed wiff-waff dens, but from there he got a toe-hold into the professional wiff-waff circuit, and before long he was making enough to put himself through school.

    On Boris’ first day at Eton, the magical Sorting Hat immediately placed him in Slytherin, but Boris told it to shut up and ambled over to join Hufflepuff. Boris was at the same school as George Osborne, whom he once used as a footstool, the Miliband brothers, and the King of Spain. At Oxford, Boris got back in touch with his working class roots, joining both the University Socialist Society, and the famous Cowingdon Club, a group of privileged but socially concious young men whose purpose was to follow the Bullingdon Club around the restaurants of Oxford apologising and offering to help clear up.

    After university Boris wanted nothing more than a quiet life of wiff-waff practice and indulging his hobby of painting pictures of cows. But David Cameron, who on leaving Oxford had automatically been made Prime Minister by sheer force of how much he expected to be, pleaded with Boris to become Mayor of London.

    The idea of any sort of public attention or lime-light has always terrified Boris, but he was too polite to say no. So instead he decided to come up with some policies that would surely make him unelectable. He suggested patients should be given the chance to carry out their own surgery, that Wales should be sold off as a vast, bumpy car park, and that we should stop Iran developing a nuclear bomb by just giving them one of ours. The electorate didn’t listen to a word. But they noticed he had non-standard hair and he shot into a 75% lead. Boris became desperate. He called the entire population of Portsmouth sub-human troglodytes; they agreed with him. He stole a cigar case from the Deputy Prime Minister but the police made him give it back because they are spoilsports.

    And so Boris found himself the reluctant Mayor of London, playing long, nostalgic games of wiff-waff across the mayoral desk at City Hall, and tinkering with his long-term pet project to reroute the London Underground so that the Tube map spells a rude word.

    But that wasn’t the end of his story. In 2015 the Conservatives made him Party Leader because they wanted a rest. In 2018 the nation elected him Prime Minister because it’s Boris, innit; it’ll be a giggle. In 2030 the newly-formed Federated States of Europe made him President because of his amusing hair. And in 2035 the United Nations appointed him lifetime dictator of the world because he was so good on Have I Got News For You.
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    Brilliant laugh!
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    "In 2018 the nation elected him Prime Minister because it’s Boris, innit; it’ll be a giggle."

    this is actually why I want to see him elected, why the hell not?
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    Go to bed, seriously
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    It's grim down south.

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