Remember those days when we lived in bubbles? Every household was a so called 'bubble' and we were not allowed to mix with other bubbles. We were warned that if we did, that spikey, invisible menace called covid-19, would burst our bubbles and we would be doomed!
How terrifying is that? So, for our sake and for the greater good of humanity, we faithfully followed our Government's strict guidelines.
Indulge me, as I further jog your memory to when Matt Hancock was our Health Secretary. He earnestly implored us to stand or demurely walk, at least a metre, preferably two metres, from the person in front of us. Alright, I exaggerated, he didn't use the word 'demurely' (it was implied).
Mr. Hancock was then caught playing that non-demure sport called 'Tonsil Hockey', with a married aide. Alas for him, he wasn't very good at it. He was caught cheating and he also scored at least two own goals - he lost his wife and he lost his job. Not sure if he lost Mrs Bonas as well. Not sure if I care. Not sure if you care. If you do, try Google.
When the furore died down, we thought that was it. But it turns out, that wasn't it.
While weddings that took months to plan, were being cancelled, milestone birthday parties were being celebrated over Zoom and people were being buried/cremated with only their immediate family (those family members were deprived of comfort or support from extended family and friends), the staff and residents of No. 10 were partying.
Apparently, they worked so hard at those 'Thou shalt not do this' and 'Thou shalt not do that' guidelines, the poor dears had no choice but to decompress with booze and sitting on each other's laps.
Boris, of course, tried to bluff his way out of it but it did not work. There was an enquiry and he was fined. He still did not resign. Finally (talk about not taking a hint), his Chancellor, Rish told him to 'Go fish' and so did Health Secretary, Sajid Javid. It was bye, bye Boris time.
Which now begs the question, who is going to replace Boris? Will it be Richie Rish or will it be Brazen Hussy, Trussy? It may even be Cruella Suella (as a fellow person of Goan origin, I apologise). Unfortunately, I can't think of a rhyme for Jeremy Hunt, so I'll leave it there.
We could, of course, ask Boris himself, but he's probably hanging from a zip wire somewhere, trying to endear himself to the British public once again.
We could also ask the lady in red but she is so enjoying herself (and Craig David) at this very legal party, it would be rude to interrupt.
Meanwhile, across the pond, Elon Musk and Donald Trump, are having a war of words (the tarsal bones in Shakespeare's 16th century boots must be quaking).
Given Trump's limited imagination and vocabulary, it won't be long before he is reduced to mocking Musk's name. Something along the lines of 'Elongated Musk-ing tape'.
Who am I kidding? Considering his previous unimaginative nicknames ('Sleepy Joe', 'Crooked Hilary'), my bet is either 'Junk Car Elon' or 'Rusty Rocket Elon'. Either way, both men deserve each other.
Side note to one of the men: for a couple of million quid, I will be happy to come up with retaliatory nicknames for the former Tweeting Tangerine (there's more where that came from).
Finally, I am happy to let you know that I have managed to come up with a rhyme for Jeremy Hunt - 'The Blunt Hunt'. Phew! I thought I was losing my touch.
Until next time, try and keep it light.
