WE’VE all been there – entering the frustratingly tonsil-torturing slagging match with the ‘other half’ until it boils to the point of someone finally seeing a bit of sense and hissing ‘Keep it down or the neighbours will hear us!’
Luckily for most of us, however, we don’t have neighbours as tediously attention-seeking and treacherous as the nosy glass-to-wall types that we now know Boris Johnson has to endure.
Allegedly (although some of the accounts should be taken with an agenda-dismissing pinch of salt) the police officers who (unnecessarily) attended the south London flat of Carrie Symonds did so following reports of a brief, albeit heated, argument taking place shortly after midnight yesterday.
Some neighbours who have since eagerly spilled the nitty gritty to the press, have said that there had been ‘banging, shouting and screaming’, and Ms Symonds was allegedly heard to tell Johnson to “get off me” and to “get out of my flat”.
Now this, let’s be honest, is pretty much a non-story. Similar, often far more heated arguments are engaged in by partners across the country. Bi-annually or quarterly if you’re lucky. Daily if you’re not.
Yet, thanks to their cringe-inducing natural reaction upon hearing a few heated words exchanged from their celebrity neighbour – to dive over their late-night snacks of tofu and extra-fat-free pumpkin seed crackers and call-up not only the police but the GUARDIAN, this morning’s left-wing, predictably anti-Boris headlines abound.
“Boris Johnson will appear before THOUSANDS of Tory party members today facing questions over why police were called to the home he shares with his partner amid claims of a domestic incident” wrote The Times.
“POLICE called to LOUD altercation at potential PM’s home” said the Guardian, clearly relishing the moment that one of the wobbly whelps from Bozza’s street whom they’d previously managed to accept a business card with the words ‘Cash paid for your stories’ scribbled on the back by a bottom-feeder marxist journalist had finally paid off.
‘What could of caused it?’ many are now asking with conspiratorial whispers and almost sinister concerns. Well, considering the fact that many a ‘lover’s tiff’ has occurred on the simplistic grounds of smiling just a little too long at the wrong person in our partner’s presence whilst out shopping in Asda or for forgetting to pick up a pint of milk on the way home as promised – I think it’s reasonable to excuse a couple facing the pressures of going through an exhausting Prime Ministerial election battle for having the odd ‘off moment’. But then again, who actually cares? What business is it of ours anyway? It certainly isn’t the business of the Kremlin-esque wanna-be spy that evidently lives next door.
What these self-serving ‘neighbours’ did to a fellow member of their community should face far more outrage from the public than that which a mere bedroom barney has induced.
The soon-to-be Prime Minister should get his own back.
If I were Boris Johnson right now, I’d buy a dog – preferably a Great Dane – to take frequent (daily if possible) shits on the main neighbour-in-question’s front lawn to teach them a lesson in insufferable cretins who lack respect to those living around them. Perhaps even a cat – a big fat one that I could encourage to sup-down on far too much water than its bladder could possibly ever hope to handle, before letting it out to take 3 minute Niagra Falls-style hose-downs all over their freshly-planted geraniums.
Like the royal rumble itself, this laughable excuse at smearing a pro-Brexit candidate will be forgiven and forgotten come the evening. And I dare say that, whilst Boris and Carrie cuddle-up together with glasses of Sauvignon Blanc after the traditional ‘making-up session’, just the other side of the wall will sit a pathetic feeble c*nt-of-a-curtain-twitcher; their worthless five minutes of self-praise giving way to the sudden feeling of being that little-bit-less liked, trusted or welcome on their own street. The curtains now firmly drawn, as everyone else accepts that the old saying still rings as true as ever: Sometimes you just can’t choose what pillock you end up living next door to.