Quite appropriate I thought

When Johnson is eventually discharged from hospital I hope he is taken aside by one of the senior staff and given one absolute bollocking, the sort you’d give to a teenager who drank bleach for a laugh and a dare and ended up in A&E diverting valuable staff. Something like;

“Okay, “Boris”? Feeling better, are we? We’re so glad, truly we are. In very good spirits are we? That’s nice. You’re quite the hero surviving this thing, aren’t you? Like St George smiting the dragon, eh? Boris the Battler, bursting with the can-do Blitz spirit, right? Nearly took one for the team, didn’t you?

“Well listen here, you grinning lump of fuck. You didn’t battle for a second. You lay there while the team, a brilliant, underfunded team, the sort of people who don’t scuttle and hide in a fucking fridge battled for you, to save your sorry fucking life. A team led by an Italian doctor and immigrant nurses who risked their own lives, as they do day in, day out because you and your clown car of a cabinet are too incompetent to provide them with the most basic protections. A team featuring the sort of foreigners you and your cynical, far right band of ministers subject to a drip-feed of cheap, nasty xenophobic hostility even though you know full well how essential we are, because you know how well that sort of rhetoric plays to the tabloids and your core of elderly white voters, who incidentally had better be taking this fucking crisis seriously if they know what’s fucking good for them, something you could have fucking impressed on them a few weeks ago rather than turning up at the fucking rugger or barging into fucking hospitals and shaking every sweaty paw you could lay your fucking ham fists on.

“You fucking survived. Hundreds, thousands didn’t, including fucking colleagues of ours, the lowest paid of whom is worth ten thousand of the likes of you and your smirking, complacent fucking pals, some of whom are creaming fucking profits off this tragedy as we fucking speak.

“You can’t undo the fucking damage you’ve done already with your manifest unfitness for fucking office, but maybe after this, that memory of when you nearly went under and experienced the first moment of fucking terror of your pampered, charmed, super-entitled fucking existence, that moment when you gasped for oxygen and instead of oxygen your lungs were filled with a black, crushing fucking void; maybe that’ll stick. “Operation Last Gasp”, eh? You’re a fucking card, aren’t you? You’re not a card, are you. You’re a cunt, what are you? Yeah, that’s right. A cunt. You’re not Winston Churchill. You’re not even Captain Mainwaring. You’re Captain Cunt. But maybe now you’ll realise how serious this shit is and you’ll cut out the boy’s own, bully beef bullshit and take the fucking job you were so bafflingly elected to do by a nation of Sun-addled serfs fucking seriously. Or better, step down. Let someone else do it. Let the fucking Downing Street cat do it. And then retire. In disgrace. Which is what you fucking are.”