Where’s Boris? Hiding from his nightmare holiday romance

Imjohnsonfarageagine… you go off on holiday looking for some fun and excitement.  Your gang meets a bunch of the opposite sex, and one particularly flirty person catches your eye.  Yes, they’re not quite your usual sort but they seem well up for it, your usual companions are all away doing something else anyway, and so you embark on a holiday romance of the hottest kind – frantic, filthy, boundary-pushing, frantic and sweaty.  It feels fantastic to leave behind all those boring old standards, and after all it’s only a holiday fling, right?  You part at the end with declarations of undying love, say you’ll text, get in the car and come home… and then you discover that your erstwhile partner lives in the next street.  And they’re calling you every half hour.

This is broadly what’s happened to Boris Johnson and Michael Gove.  Having had a fling with the Ukippers and drawn hearty applause from the hard Right, they are now back in Westminster and discovering to their horror that the other side didn’t view it as a holiday romance at all.  Those people aren’t going away, they’re coming round to tea and they want to meet the family.  And they’ll call you all those private things that you wouldn’t want anyone else to hear.

And when they find out that Gove and Johnson didn’t really mean what they said, they won’t be happy.  At all.

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