Twas the night before Christmas, and o’er the Isle of Grain

Not a creature was stirring, nor a car… or a plane.

By the bed there were hung, unfeasibly large socks

Big enough to contain, the pound shop’s entire stock.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds

Pretending on Snapchat they were elsewhere instead,

And mum in her onesie – and I, her new fella,

Had just settled down and cracked open the Stella.

When out from the drive came a crash and a smack;

Mum muted the telly and screeched “what the flippin’ hell’s that?”

I put down my beer, and through the blind I did spy,

Expecting to see a smashed up GTI

Or maybe some young rascals vandalising the phone box

Or someone taking a hammer to the neighbour’s front door locks,

But what should my wandering eye suddenly see

But a flying bicycle, and a host of MPs;

With a big loudmouthed driver, quoting Homer and Horace,

I knew in moment… it must be Boris.

Faster the weasels, his coursers they came,

And he blustered and waffled and called them by name;

“Come Gove, come Farage, come Iain Duncan Smith,

We’ve dashed our way out of Europe, now look here at this;

It’s nought but a marsh called the Isle of Grain,

And would be immeasurably improved by ten thousand airplanes.”

“My chances of PM, have met with frustration;

Boris Island’s my last hope of claiming a nation.”

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew

With briefcases full of planning consultation documents, and Boris too,

And then in a twinkling, from the roof of the house,

I heard the gibbering and guffawing of each little mouth.

With my head in my hands, I made a small groaning sound,

When down the chimney Boris Johnson, came with a bound!

He looked sort of smart but dishevelled, and said “it’s wonderful to see you,”

And his suit was all tarnished, with the ashes of the EU

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old Etonian

And I laughed when I saw him, though I was Estonian.

He had a pile of blond hair, with no discernible form

Which shook when he laughed like a haystack in a storm.

He waffled on for a bit, and went straight to work

And knocked over the Christmas tree, like a bumbling jerk.

A bundle of plans, he had flung on his shoulder

And when he unveiled them, the room seemed to grow colder.

He chuckled as he saw that I’d grown quite distraught,

As the plans showed my home would become an airport.

His eyes, how they bulged; his mouth, how cavernous

And he looked round the room like he was utterly ravenous.

“I must have this home for if we are to secure the connectivity we need to support our future growth and prosperity and do so without dire impacts on public health, then we must do better than Heathrow…” he said, grave and sombre,

Then he winked and exclaimed, “I’m a Lancaster Bomber!”

With arms outstretched wide, he circled around,

Shouting “chocks away, tally ho”, and making loud engine sounds.

Then he tripped over the tree, the presents and all,

Bounced off the TV and crashed into the wall.

“But Boris” I yelled, “you great big mad overgrown elf,

You must think the world revolves round yourself,

And you must have forgotten, the airports commission,

Has ruled that your airport should not have permission.”

Then I grabbed him by the collar, and peanutted his tie

Shoved him back up the chimney, and kicked him up to the sky;

And I heard myself exclaim, ’ere he flew out of sight,

“Merry Christmas to all, and to Boris - Good RIDDANCE!”