What ho ho ho! Festive chums!

Scrouge character in a winter snow scene
Scrouge
God bless Tiny Tim Project by Keith Williamson is licensed under CC BY 2.0

There follows a Christmas and New Year address from the prime minister:

Now, I know we’ve all been struggling with the sniffles for a bit, but I’m proud to say you have all done a completely bang up job at not dying in the numbers I expected you to. Kudos to you all. At least one grouse moor survives – no longer destined to be a plague pit – due to your privations and for that I, and my associates, thank you. 

But now old Father Christmas approaches, smiling and ruddy – no he doesn’t have a temperature, and his indiscriminate appetite for milk, whisky, shortbread and chocolate is not indicative of a loss of taste – and it’s time for us to let loose, relax and have a jolly old jamboree. Much like pater allowed us when the nanny stopped weeping. 

So, my wards, I ask you to go Christmas mad! Be together as one in the spirit of the nativity. Follow a child around for a bit and find out where it lives. Offer it gifts. Actually no, Carrie says that would be “inappropriate”. 

Anyway, go crazy and to hell with all caution – but also, do not leave your home, and seal your doors. Refuse all contact with the lonely and needy. I’ve been doing that my whole life and my Christmases are superb. As is the rest of my life. 

It’s particularly important at this vital time that you do not listen to anyone asking why we didn’t relax the rules for Eid, Hanukah and Diwali. Do they need it spelling out? Jesus.  

What do I want for Xmas? I know it is uppermost in your mind, working types, and I say “Tish, pish and bother. All Boris needs is to render the UK incapable of maintaining a usable relationship with its closest and biggest trading partner”. I had a sneaky look under the tree the other night and I reckon your all in for a lovely surprise on New Year’s Day.

But isn’t Xmas all about surprises?

I know I’m hoping for a few, so I’ve invited Jacob Rees-Mogg. I’ve always wondered what’s in that valise of his – it smells oddly like dinner at Eton – and I’m sure he’ll drag along a small boy using a crutch to contribute to a traditional Dickensian Christmas. We have done our utmost to provide that to you all. 

Have a fine and happy Christmas, old chums. It won’t be your last. Technically.

Boris.

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