Goveller’s Travels

Monday 14th September 1727

We had not travelled twenty leagues on the RMS Brexcusitania when Captain Johnson slipped into a coma after a freak getting dressed accident involving clothes. The ensuing mouth-to-sloth CPR went on so long, boatswain

Nicholas Soames got fed up and shot the ship’s cat Brandon Lewis. This would not have been notable, had the delingpole situation on board not spiralled out of control, the malignant pests multiplying like bacteria in the absence of apex predator Lewis.

They soon began carrying away our food: quarter-master Therese Coffey’s victuals of peri-peri slow worms, mallard foie-gras, pickled thrush eggs and wine gums were all despatched, as were my Lilliputian sheep, their bones found later in Jacob Rees-Mogg’s giant cobweb hammock,

picked clean from the flesh. Bareknuckle boxing champion and evangelical life-coach Steve ‘three socks’ Baker suggested we acquire more provisions by commandeering a foreign ship, which certain cowards like Geoffrey Cox balked at; Luckily, no win no fee Attorney General

Suella Braverman, having resisted attempts by head-hunters to lure her into a career mowing the grass around remote phone boxes, was still aboard and she produced a definitive piece of paper which stated that such an action would actually strengthen international law and would be

the fault of the other vessel for not being British. That her paper appeared to be the warranty for a Hotpoint washer-dryer, I chose not to say, lest I upset a vessel full of supperless Tories. We soon sighted a European super-trawler, its hull full of English fish

shouting ‘Cor, get orf us guvnor’, ‘I’m a cockney ‘addock’ and ‘Honestly, you wouldn’t recognise Bethnal Green no more’, but before we could seize her we were wracked, on what we first thought were rocks, but later discovered was the border in the Irish sea. Washing up in

Fishguard, we were detained by local Welsh women in red dresses with stovepipe hats who took us for devils. We explained we were but humble Tories and they replied ‘that’s what we said bach’ and put us on a show trial, sentencing us to death by Bassey. Thankfully local

leisure suite owner Steven ‘Crabbmeister’ Crabb, in naught but a velvet dressing gown and gold medallion, with several Edwina Curry lookalikes on his arms, intervened and reckoned for our freedom, on the proviso we destroy the Welsh farming sector by Christmas. Thus freed,

I completed several media appearances on the BBC and Sky, showing my integrity to many persons of quality and others by failing to answer a single question, diverting the attention always, and telling outright lies, whilst all the time oozing charisma (the silver trail I leave

behind me). I stayed but a week with my wife, for my insatiable desire not to listen to her bend my earholes about the urgent jobs around the house would suffer me to continue no longer. With tears on no sides, I took leave, on board the HMS Mephistopheles, bound for Hull.

With thanks to @Michelangela75 for locating this superb picture from the archive.

And apologies to
@BrandonLewis @SuellaBraverman @SCrabbPembs @stevebakerHW @jamesdelingpole @dickdelingpole for being unable to tag you all.