The deputy PM was oiled and ready to take the initiative. He’d make sure to depart as gracelessly as possible
Dominic Raab hadn’t had the best of nights. His sleep had been broken by repeated nightmares. Him being nice to people. In one he had even dreamed he had befriended an asylum seeker. It was disturbing to find the liberal wokerati had forced their way into his subconscious. This just wouldn’t do. Much more of this and he’d become a paid-up member of the Blob.
Time to start acting like a real man again. He tossed the duvet to one side and got out of bed. He stared in the mirror lovingly as he oiled his biceps. Hard. So hard. They could take a man down with a single blow. Or a woman. Psycho wasn’t misogynistic. He’d hit anyone. His fists were equal opportunities employers.
