Someone bought me a Boris Johnson doll
faithfully rendered in wipe clean plastic
the detail was fantastic
white blond hair that stuck up
a shabby shirt that rucked up
eyes that narrowed and slid
and written in big blue letters on the lid
TAKE BACK CONTROL
Back of the box was a list of features:
realistic hands for passing the buck
cloak of invisibility when things come unstuck
extra large pockets so there’s room enough
for paternity suits and bungs and stuff
additional velcro suit, hat and stick
so he can change into Churchill pretty quick
Tough! Dynamic! A real world-beater!
But I got a shock when I pulled him out
In his back was a cord to make him speak
Waffle and spoffle and schoolboy Greek
and underneath where the batteries went
was another, peculiar looking vent
so I put the doll on the kitchen floor
got a spoon from the cutlery drawer
levered it open and gave it a clout
Inside was a figure like a decorated peg
in a shell-suit, lanyard and beanie
I’d never seen a person so weenie
or so grumpy, I have to confess
with a hard little stare like he couldn’t care less
I’d performed a C-section with a spoon
and sprung him from his womb
like a crappy toy from a Kinder egg
There was nothing on the box to say he was there
nothing in the instructions
the long list of functions
so I wondered what it was all about
I mean – it’s something I can do without
I think it’s pretty standard when you buy a doll
that you’re the one who’s in control
and not some other fucker hidden somewhere
