Well, what can I say? I'm glad that I don't live in London?
As Prozacville puts it, who the fuck voted for this guy?
Nevermind. I suppose some thought it would be a good laugh, and some thought that he will do a good job for London. Well, you're both wrong. Idiots.
I'm in the mood for some medieval torture again, rather sooner than I thought I would be. But who do we punish for this crime? Boris Johnston? oh surely not. He'll have a chance, somewhere down the line, no doubt, to sit in a shiny, new, modern courtroom. And besides, we can't blame him if that many Londoners are so easily duped. Or stupid. And self-absorbed. That's hardly his fault. That's capitalism.
So, who do we blame? the Evening Standard? or all the Associated Newspapers titles for that matter? Don't be silly. You can't torture newsprint. It's unethical. How about the editor, Veronica Wadley, or her malformed attack dog, Andrew Gilligan? No, not them either. Frankly, fantasising about publicly humiliating these two on a light-hearted blog is too good for either of them. (Besides, I'm sure that Gilligan, at least, can claim some affinity with one protected species or another.)
No, this schandmantel I'm planning to fit around the people of London. All of them. And slap a big, stinky, blonde-haired turnip on each head, and let the capital reek and stink for four years until no one can bear it any more.
Honestly. I mean, really?