There was me, that is Alex – Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson – but known to my droogs as Boris, and I’d made up my rassoodock what do with the morning.

A real horrorshow is what we needed and real horrorshow is what we would have. This morning would be no ordinary joyride, it was time for the ultra-violent. Oh my brothers today was the day to cut the jeezny out of those dedoochka.

‘What’s it going to be then, eh?’

We were in a dark old room, full of wood panelling and boorjoyce books. That slithering Smith was sitting down in front of me with his glazznoss darting around the room, looking all oddy knocky and lonesome. I rolled up my sleeves, fingers trembling in anticipation, my throat keeping dry and gargly.

‘Will you drivel on your grazzny knees and give me your appy polly loggies?’

I could taste the fear in the air like a salty lick of lard. Smith looked at me all right and spoogy and I could feel the fear dripping out of those juicy lips.

Without knowing when it began, I looked down to see that I was over him with my rooks slashing and bashing round the gulliver. Oh it was a pleasure my brothers. I clamped my rookers on his face, now so close to him I could smell his steaky wake breath, and whispered ‘Your Irish kartoffel droogs aren’t here to help you bratchny!'

As I pulled his voloss and ripped it from the scalp of the old sooka, I heard my goloss scream ‘Tried to make me look bad in front of my droogs did? You old Varadkar-licking nazz!’

Then came a little squeak in the corner, and I shan’t lie it gave me a grahzny little surprise. I had forgotten that my old droog Govey was in the room. In that moment of distraction, my poogly Irish moodge hurtled himself out of the door. No matter my brothers for there was more to come.

I fell back on my chair and felt saliva dripping down my chin. After wiping it away and slowly doing up my koshtoom sleeves, I asked my droog ‘How are you finding this Govey?’

His eyes glanced over to me and I saw an ecstasy there in the old pol creep, as if he had been lubbilubbing. He whispered ‘Pretend I’m not here’, his goloss almost out of breath.

At that moment my chief droog Dom walked in. I stood up to my full title with chest all out and strong. He looked at me, his glazzballs darting around the room. I poured out some Knifey Moloko for ourselves, which we gulped down all slosh and slash.

I sat, caught my breath, and waited. In came the bouncing toad, with a nadmenny smily and a step full of air. Oh my brothers, he still didn’t know. I felt my pan-handle lurch, pulse quicken, and told myself to wait, to wait. Dom stood behind me and I could feel the radosty in his pulse.

‘Saj, my slippery forella droog,’ I said looking him closely in the litso.He sat down with his glazzballs searching us over. My goloss was shaky in excitement as I gave the toad a good grahzny word here and there.

‘So my old hopping droog that’s it. You want to use that mozg of yours and say yes.’ His goober was wavering in strack.

‘What’s it going to be then, eh’.

My ticktocker was flying right high and crazy, hoping, aching for him to give me the word.

Oh my brothers, when he gave it to me, radosty filled my heart. I didn’t even hear him say ‘No’, my ookoos were filled with a symphony, with the strings and the horns and I saw my loyal droogs race over all guffawing and shrieking.

I was ripping and vredding and oh my lovelies it didn’t disappoint. We were hurting him something oozhnassny. The skitebird tried kicking me away and scrabbled under the desk. Oh my darlings, oh my dears, it was too much for me. I love it when the chelovecks fight back. We ripped him right down to his skin and bashed in his shiny head. The big old cow had long stopped giving us the moloko and here he was curled into a ball.

The door opened and the molodoy Sunak walked in. He saw what we were doing and his face erupted full of guffaw and smeck as he walked over and began cracking the eunuch jelly himself. But by now the toad was still and limp.

Behind Sunak came my old pee Stanley in his silk toofles. The starry dedoochka goolied to the table and splashed out the vehino for one and all. Carrie, my polly devotchka, followed him with her luscious glory flowing behind her. Upon seeing the veshch on the floor she paused and seemed razdras. My droog Dom made a sarky comment to her but I gave him a right dark smot and the smug look left his face. Soon enough, with the help of some vehino, Carrie was back to her sladkvat self, silver-like and full of smeck.

The droog Dom turned on the Worldcast and a beep or two later we all guffawed in glee as the malenky journalists ran around, like chickens clucking at their feed.