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Fears that Sunak vs Johnson could escalate into diss tracks

AS the prime minister and the last-but-one prime minister trade barbs in public, concerns are growing that the spat could escalate into diss tracks.

After open warfare broke out over Johnson’s honours list, rumours that he is heading into a recording studio to spit fire bars about his rival and ether him like Nas did Jay-Z continue to circulate.

A Downing Street source said: “Sunak’s been spotted jotting lyrics on the bus to work like Eminem. Johnson’s said to be workshopping some raw shit on the underground circuit.

“We’re one TikTok drop away from the bloodiest beef since NYC’s Roxanne Wars. Boris has laid it down cold over samples of military marches from his shellac-crate-digging MC, Rees-Mogg.

“He’s the bomb on the mic, mixing Latin rhymes with Peppa Pig similes, and what a freestyler. He’s basically freestyled his whole career.

“And while Sunak has an inherent advantage coming from the Soton hood, his previous rhyme was Eat Out to Help Out. His stuff’s shit. It’ll sound like a G-Unit track written by ChatGPT.

“This could prove fatal. Not for them, for hip-hop.”

Sunak said: “The diss in diss track stands for disrespect.”

'A Liverpool lass treated so horrid: hear ye the ballad of Nadine Dorries'

OH, gather ye children from their homes for a tale of woe that’ll leave you cold, a Liverpool lass treated so horrid: hear ye the ballad of Nadine Dorries. 

A grey-haired beauty from Merseyside, Nadine believed not Labour’s socialist lies. From humble stock yet dreaming of glory, she headed to London to be a Tory.

Made member for Mid Bedfordshire, Nadine’s ambitions set her sights higher. She appeared on ITV’s Celebrity Jungle where she dined well on kangaroo bunghole.

The Cabinet was her destiny, but two Eton boys would not let it be, so politely informing them off to f**k, she instead wrote brilliant best-selling books.

Then in 2019 came her white knight, a man handsome and brave to set the world right. Hailed for Brexit, the holy one’s son: Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson.

Set at his right hand as culture minister, their relationship pure and not at all sinister, they ruled Britain from moral ground high and to her he would never ever, ever lie.

Brought down by pygmies for birthday cake, a promise to Nadine did her Boris make. Swore to her a lady she’d be, getting £332 every day for free.

But two more posh boys, these ones from Winchester, refused to do the right thing and invest her. Her ladyship blocked, she wept for the Scousers, for it was for their simple sake she would sit in both Houses.

Her Boris betrayed, he assured her sincerely, she had naught but her show on Talk TV. Reputation ruined, clothes tatters and rags, she sadly called Harriet Harman a hag.

So gather ye round, here in the gutter, where a grey-haired old derelict squats and mutters. A Liverpool lass treated so horrid: this was the ballad of Nadine Dorries.

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