Boris Johnson Is A Black Hole

I haven't been in a cinema for a long time, but I remember it was compulsory for horror-movies to have false endings. In every slasher-flick since "Halloween" (1978) the "dead" monster would re-animate for one more lunge at the young girl's throat. We are watching the not-quite end of the Prime Minister From The Fourth Dimension -a horrid phenomenon that sucks everything down with it as it goes. Isaac Newton predicted the existence of "a region of spacetime where gravity is so strong that nothing can escape from it" -and he was right. Boris Johnson is a black hole.

It can truthfully be said that this was never a man, at least not as we understand the term. In relativity theory, a black hole comprises a "deformed region of spacetime" and this is a far better description of the Johnson phenomenon. Deformed, certainly -nature itself offers little comparison with a creature so heavy it can trigger a collapse in spacetime. A "region" he most certainly is, but a strange, alien one; a vast, immeasureable area that dwarfs everything yet contains nothing. 

But as we know, nothing lasts forever. Space and time themselves became warped in the Johnsonian era -a seemingly endless period that began with a colossal belch of hot gas swirling in a primordial soup, and looks set to end the same way. We know not why it came, only whence. History will record how the creature from New York made its way via Brussels to London, where it grew in bulk until -according to experts- its gravitational pull exceeded that of mighty Jupiter. 

Eclipsing all else as it loomed into orbit, the shadow of Johnson fell across the city and the kingdom beyond, gathering impetus as it progressed across the horizon, night after day after night -always in view, but somehow just out of reach. Poets, authors, artists and composers found themselves completely unable to describe one tenth of the measure of the celestial body dominating -or so it seemed- the very universe itself.  

Time passed -days like months and weeks like years- and with each new moon the thing they called 'Boris' launched yet another soundbite unsubtly beginning with the letter "B", in homage to his own unforgettable name. In the beginning was the Boris Bike. Then the Bendy Bus. In time he would claim the Boris Brexit, promise to Build Back Better, and command us to get Boosted. It was only fitting, then, that in Downing Street (as at Eton and Oxford) Boris would get royally Buggered. 

 

Newton understood that when a Black Hole appears, everything in the vicinity is slurped into a spiralling U-bend of spacetime, never to return -and so it proved, because down into the grim funnel that Johnson created went the dreams of a generation, our national identity, the entire economy and uncountable thousands of dead and dying citizens who endured his catastrophic Premiership.

But weep not for the nothingness that never ends. Like the galaxies that twinkle in the dark beyond the light, the gravitational sphincter of Johnson is immortal, and now -free of the petty inhibitions that hobble mere humans- will likely expand to fill all the space available, on cable TV if nowhere else. 

There's nothing I'd enjoy more than dancing on the grave of Boris Johson's career. But since politics became a reality show, failed politicians have unlimited options which don't require the cooperation of voters. Johnson is the living embodiment of political anti-matter; a monster which can never be killed, so long as there is one TV programme left somewhere on earth, one last microphone upon which it can slobber. 

A hundred years from now, men and women will stare at the night sky in wonder, as Man has always done, and see -right between the Great Bear and the Big Dipper - a thick, bottomless darkness, deeper and darker than the eternal void. And when  the little ones ask -Mummy, what's the fat dirty thing in the sky? -the reply will be: That, my child, is The Black Hole of Johnson.

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 Ian Andrew Patrick

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