The new Prime Minister has image, well, let’s be kind,challenges. To start with he is a man who will not disclose how many children he has to how many women. In a modern age of flexible personal morality that’s clearly not the disgrace it would be in every other walk of life.
There are the regular moments of racism, xenophobia, and misogyny. Sometimes even all rolled into one – Muslim Women resembling letterboxes anyone?
He deliberately fosters an image of scruffy carelessness to counteract the accent and manner, I presume to make him appear blokey and relatable. If you relate to right-wing millionaire posh blokes.
No matter what way the cookie was crumbled the image needed a makeover. This was one deal that could not be avoided. So, there was only one thing to be done to bring order to this chaos. It was obvious really. To get a Jack Russell. Adopted of course.
Johnson’s dishevelled suits can now appear with the added chic of dog hairs all over them, he might have the perfect deflection for scruffiness but picking hairs out of his socks at the G7 will be distracting. His never shined shoes will be chewed to pieces as will anything left sitting long enough. But sure who’ll notice?
The late Siobhán O’Hanlon was part of the first Sinn Féin delegation to visit Downing Street. When she got home she told everyone how “their carpets are stinking”. If that is the state of things they might not notice the particular aroma a Jack Russell brings after a good dig. If there are any London foxes in the Rose Garden, and there likely are, he will be only too delighted to roll in what they leave behind, and trail that up and down those stairs past the portraits of Thatcher, Churchill et al. Mind you said garden is likely going be turned into an allotment after this No Deal Brexit the current incumbent is hell bent on. The inevitable battle of freshly dug trenches and the new pooch will have staff recalling that time the IRA sent a morter in.
Of course, the current girlfriend Carrie Symonds, Instagrammed pics with her adopted terrier. She could well know how very protective the little fellah is likely to be. He won’t be putting up with any late–night shouting or aggression that might be taped, causing the bobby at the door to investigate. Nor will he be putting up with any spin or staged photographs subsequently.
Visitors, workers and residents can now expect little welcome parcels waiting for shoes to tread on, and the corners of every skirting board turning a gentle shade of yellow. His new owner might like to appear unpredictable but that will have nothing on this supposed image enhancer. He might love women and bite all men, or vice versa depending on the day of the week. He might really hate Special Advisors. He might take a shine to the cat, and gang up on them all. There will be nothing in between.
They may hope Operation Yellowhammer’s threat of food shortages don’t come true, because no one stands a chance of rationing this lad, and no cupboard or fridge doors will either.
But surely such carnage as awaits that house can mean only one thing. There is an Irish backstop already arrived in Downing Street, and his name is Seán Ruiséal.