PUBLISHED: 16:21 26 July 2019 | UPDATED: 16:21 26 July 2019
An anti-Boris Johnson protest at the gates of Downing Street. Photograph: Steve Parsons/PA Wire
Politics is heating up. Heating up into burnt toast, and no, it can’t be saved by scraping off the burnt bit, the whole thing has to be thrown in the bin.
The UK was not built for this heat. And most of us do not have the privilege to bathe in a pool somewhere on a roof top in West London, Fro-sé in hand and Instagram snaps popping off left, right and centre. And yes, I did mean Fro-zé – as in ‘frozen rose’, the Instagramable gold.
So, instead, if you’re like me, you’ve either spent the day working from home in your underwear in front of a fan, sweating like a walrus…. without water to roll in. Or you have been in an office somewhere, pretending you’re enjoying the fact that you’ve got aircon above your head, when we all know deep down you’re wishing you were bathing in that rooftop pool in West London or better yet, spread eagle, oiled up on an inflatable flamingo in Barbados.
Sadly, the hardboiled reality is, we’re here in boiling, dystopian Brexit Britain. On the hottest day of the year. So why can’t we sadistically turn up the heat eh? And not in a sexy way, but in the least sexy way possible. Ladies and gentlemen I hate to say it again, but Boris Bullingdon boy is now our prime minister. Michael Gove is the no-deal reaper, appointed to bludger ‘no deal’ with ‘no ifs, no buts’. Dominic Raab (the feminist hater who only a few months ago, realised the connection between Dover and Calais) is foreign secretary. Priti (pro-hostile environment) Patel is home secretary. And to turn up the heat just a few degrees more, so we’re no longer sweating walruses, but physically on fire, about to spontaneously combust walruses, he has appointed a f**king fracking supporter as environmental secretary.