NADINE Dorries has put her pen to work writing a novel about the downfall of her friend, hero and erotic obsession Boris Johnson. These are the good bits:
P49:
‘In his hour of greatest need he had been abandoned. His girlfriend had turned away from him for no other reason than her late-stage pregnancy. The rest had been scared off by Covid.
‘He lay there in intensive care, hooked up to bleeping machines, profile still noble enough for a Roman coin. His lips moved. I leaned closer.
‘“Wank me,” he said, with barely strength to form the words. “Wank me off.” And I knew that I must do what my prime minister and Britain required of me.’
P143:
‘“They’re all against me,” he spat, correctly recognising that every MP, civil servant and journalist – who all went to the same public schools – knew what a threat this iconoclastic outsider was to their rule. “So I want you up against that wall.”
‘“What about Carrie?” I asked. “She only cares about wallpaper,” he said, contemptuously. “She knows nothing of a man’s needs. She is a mere broodmare. You are my true love, or I wouldn’t have such a massive stiffy.”
‘“What about Cummings?” I asked, preparing myself for his bombastic entry. “It’s okay,” he said, entering me in a single bold movement that rattled historic china in a nearby cabinet. “You’re well past the menopause so it’s fine.”’
P300:
‘“You will never restrain me,” roared Boris, magnificently nude, fully priapic, wrapped only in chains held by pygmies. “I am an electoral giant! I delivered a majority as stonking as this erection!”
‘But for every chain he broke, the small-minded grey men of politics, threw over another. “That’s why we’re so afraid of you,” squeaked Sunak. “Because you upset the applecart. Because you have a direct connection to the heart of the British people. Because you could rule for a hundred years.”
‘“Graaagh!” shouted the once and future king, flinging his disloyal ministers around the Commons in defiance. But it was too late. Their poisoners’ daggers had entered his heart. And I was powerless to help, as I was masturbating furiously.’
P348
‘He drew my hand to his lips. “I shall be back,” he said, tender even as I rode his bucking bulk like a rodeo cowboy. “And ere I leave I shall make you a lady. Lady Nadine of the Mersey Slums, the highest in all the land!” he promised as I climaxed.
‘That his vow could not be kept was not his fault. So, on his exiled behalf, I vowed the revenge of a writer gifted with the poetry of Shakespeare and the libido of Jilly Cooper. After publication, the whole political establishment would be on its knees in an alleyway sucking dick.
‘And not in a good way.’
