• Matt Owen


As told to Matt Owen


Speaking as someone who sounds not quite as mad as Boris, I implore Conservative Party members to think about what they really want from their party when they vote for the leader. As someone who has a tremendous amount of experience fucking things up in government, I would like to say that I am without a shadow of a doubt, more experienced when it comes to fucking things right up, not only for the party, but for the country.

I would leave no stone un-fucked up – this is a promise I will keep, and if I don’t, it doesn’t matter because I’d probably have the job for five years and there’s nothing anyone can do to get rid of me, anyway.

I’m not only good at fucking things up at work. When I’m at home, I drive my wife to distraction by fucking up the easiest of tasks. I regularly burn the water when making a cup of tea, have gone through several cars because I don’t fully understand the difference between diesel and a petrol engine, and I keep forgetting that toast is cooked before it goes black and you have to call the fire brigade to put the fire out in the kitchen for the 3rd time in a day. Oh well – you fail to learn something every day. Let’s face it, I’m an ignorant Hunt.

I understand those who say, “Boris is equally as incompetent as you are Jeremy”. This is true. His record when it comes to setting everything ablaze and then running away from it, is legendary – and I commend him for this. But what you must ask yourself is this question (Apart from did I leave the cooker on when I went out to this morning) – who can I trust when it comes to making a complete and utter Horlicks of things? The man who made a complete and utter bollocks of the Foreign Office (actually that’s him and me), the man who fucked up royally as Mayor of London?

Or do you trust the man who took the NHS by the scruff of its neck and threw it into one of those industrial mincing machines you find in a butcher. Because that’s what I did – I took something incredibly precious and delivered the type of cock-up on a scale so gargantuan, so vast – it was utterly incredulous. Never mind the NHS being the jewel in the welfare crown – the way I poured it into a chemical toilet and had a huge, metaphorical dump on it is something I am very proud of. And you know what? I can deliver that kind of dump and so much more if the Conservative faithful deliver the correct decision and vote for me.


Well, strictly speaking I, I, I, I rather – I, eh, should point out now – rather than later, which is rather preferable because it would, would – clearly be too late because the leadership…eh, election would be over and therefore my candidacy would be…ehh…eh, dead. Where was I – cripes. Yes, clearly…clearly…clearly. Clearly, I’ve lost my train of thought. Never mind, it’s all part of my shtick and you’re still buying it. Something in Latin here, in order to make me sound clever, in spite of the fact the Latin means “My boat is full of cats”.

Yes…eh, where…where was I? Latin. No, done that. I should point out that Jeremy Hunt would be the ideal candidate, and I’m sure he is…eh, in fact…the ideal candidate would this whole…eh…question was “who should be the captain of the cricket team?” Indeed, Jeremy is a…a…more than passable middle-order batsman and can bowl a bit of off-spin. Which is by-the-by, because we…we aren’t talking about the cricket team – which is a shame, because I fancy a knock.

Eh…where was I again? Ah. Yes. I am the only one who can deliver as much confusion on Brexit – perhaps even…even…more than my rival, Jeremy Thorpe. Eh…Jeremy Hunt, rather. Ah…and that’s saying something, because…eh…as everyone knows, Brexit is a bit of a…eh, dog’s dinner. Not only a dog’s dinner, but a very, eh…eh…eh, messy dog’s dinner – not the type of dog’s dinner whereby the Pedigree Chum stays in the bowl…eh…rather the type of dog’s dinner where it spills over onto the kitchen Linoleum and makes a horrid mess. So, this – essentially…eh, in a word, is what I’m offering – eh…more of the same, which isn’t necessarily a…a…bad thing, but a worse thing.

People keep asking me about…eh, hard borders, customs borders, and…eh Border Collies….eh, the whole world has gone border mad. And, eh…the…eh simple truth is, I, I haven’t got a clue what the eh, answer or….eh, indeed for that matter, the question is. I, I, I…but there again who does? Before the whole Brexit thing eh…raised its rather ugly head, no-one knew what a hard…eh…border was or even cared about it. Tell the truth, I still don’t. My, eh…job as Tory Party leader would be to deliver Brexit, deliver a hard border (should I be saying this sub?) and…eh, deliver a Chicken Madras, with Pilau Rice, Naan Bread and poppadoms - as far as I’m concerned, that’s my brief.

One thing that…eh, Jeremy Hunt and myself….eh…can agree on is the, ehh…fact that Jeremy Corbyn would be an absolute…eh…disaster if he were to ever become Prime Minister of this…eh, great country of ours. Chap looks like a Humanities teacher in a comprehensive school – an awful, beardy weasel of a chap who spends his time receiving bollockings from Len McCluskey, making runner bean wine and laminating his back issues of Socialist Worker. Anyway, if we…eh…deliver the country into Jeremy…eh…eh…Corbyn’s hands we might as well deliver the country into the hands of the Russians. Eh, which to all intents and purposes…eh…we already have, to be fair to Jeremy Corbyn. Eh, and indeed the…eh, Russians so…so…basically, I have no idea what I’m talking about and my brain and, indeed mouth, and indeed, fingers on the keyboard have started to take on a…a…a life of their own. Just like my old chap does whenever we employ a new nanny, or a pretty new assistant, but that’s another story which I don’t wish to go into right now. Ah. I have gone into it, already. Crumbs, I could be in a spot of bother.

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