(The story so far: As part of a European work-sharing initiative, the GLB Greatest Living Bulgarian Boyko Borisov and Posh-boy David Cameron have swapped jobs. Batty Boyko is now in Downing Street and firing on all cylinders. David Cameron is somewhat less comfortable in his Boyanna Residence)
B.B writes: It’s pouring, it’s raining; Queen Lizzie’s still reigning; Charly needs restraining; The BBC’s waning; Osborne needs braining; Nick Clegg’s abstaining; we’re getting a caning; the Euro is straining; Merkel’s complainng and it’s raining, it’s raining.
I should be the Poet Laureate.
I still don’t understand what’s so funny about Jeremy Hunt’s name. But I gave them the benefit of my Bulgarian brain at the Levinson Inquiry. Should politicians have close links with the media? Of course they should. I always make sure that my every spectacular act and my every word of wisdom is recorded. Should the Police have close links with the media? Again of course! What normal person would think otherwise? I told Teresa to attend every big arrest and to make sure she was wearing her best shoes. Keep hitting the public with arrests – that’s what they want to see – they’re not interested in the tedious long drawn out court cases. It’s arrests they want to see. Talking about arrests, Nick Clegg wants me to do something about this Jeremy character. And I want to do something too, but to a different Jeremy, that supercilious BBC interviewer, who keeps looking at me like a cat bored with a dying mouse. I’ve told the BBC straight: if they don’t sack Paxman and put Yulian Vuichkov in his place they can whistle for any license fee.
I suppose I’ve got to support England in the Euros. I did want to carry the Olympic torch through Westminster, but Boris nobbled me. The trouble with Boris is that he wants to hog the limelight. Still my chance will come at Wimbledon. I’m going to duet with Sir Cliff when inevitably the heavens open. I’ve taught him the words of Brenitsa village in my new English version:
Brenitsa village is great to pillage/ for what it’s worth, it’s heaven on earth.
Oh Tsvetelina My lovely Tsvetelina, I’ll wait for you till the banks run dry.
Ha – ha! I had a chuckle over the benighted Polish politician who said that so far the fans were behaving like white men. I’ve seen how white men behave on that TV show, Shameless, and I did the racism course when I was shepherding African dictators for Bai Toshko. So I’m not going to fall into that trap. As far as I’m concerned everyone’s white, no matter what their colour. Except Gypsies of course.
DC writes: Whew, what a scorcher! We’ve had earthquakes and an old arms dump exploded and I’ve had to get used to seeing my picture in the newspapers with a fez, since I did this road-building deal with Turkey and Quatar.
OK – I know I should have been paying attention, but when we went to visit a community project in Stolipenovo, I thought Sam had hold of her hand. Sam thought I had her and it wasn’t until we were half way back to Sofia that we realized our daughter Nancy had gone missing. It could have happened to anyone. I’m sure any parent would understand how easily these things happen. I tried to laugh it off but my Bulgarian retinue were in complete panic. They were on the phone to dog-faced Tsvetanov. He got on on the phone to some guy called King Kiril. I said that Nancy was a bright girl. I think the last time I saw her, she was dancing with a man in a bear suit. My retinue told me that was a real bear. I said I thought there were laws and they said – not in Stolipenovo. Oh dear – by now I was sweating a little. Sam was shouting at me. But all’s well that ends well. By the time we got back to Stolipenovo we were met by five swarthy giants, who said they’d managed to get Nancy back from the circus – all they needed was the five thousand euro, they’d had to pay in compensation plus something for themselves. I was about to say that we didn’t negotiate with kidnappers when Sam trod on my foot. She was wearing a pair of stilettos that Teresa May had given her. Ouch. I reached for my wallet.