My Hunk of Destiny

A tale of love and levelling up

Artillery Row Portcullis Sketch

In what the book world is calling the most exciting publishing event since the Hitler Diaries, Nadine Dorries – bestselling novelist, reality TV contestant, sometime Secretary of State for Culture, Algorithms and Sport and possible future member of the House of Lords – is working on a tell-all account of Boris Johnson’s downfall. Other readers will have to wait until next year for this gripping work, but The Critic’s interns have, by going through her bins, been able to piece together these exclusive extracts of the book, tentatively titled Boris: Hunk Of Destiny.

“Oh Nadine, my darling, this can never be…” The chiselled, handsome, thoughtful prime minister sighed with all his masculine soul and looked away from his devoted Culture Secretary. “To me, the vows of marriage are a sacred thing that I could never break. Would that things were other than they are, but fidelity and honesty have been the touchstones of my life, as they were for my father before me.” A single tear rolled down his strong, manly, pensive cheek. Nadine had never experienced jealousy as intense as that she now felt towards that tiny drop of salt water, allowed to caress the mottled pink face that she could only dream of stroking.

In the candlelight, she glimpsed Boris’s musclebound chest

In the candlelight, she glimpsed Boris’s musclebound chest rippling beneath his shirt, the buttons straining to contain his pectorals of steel as he panted with fiery desire. It was the forbidden fruit she knew she could never taste. How she longed to run her fingers through his lustrous blond mane, to kiss the artfully covered bald spot and to feel just once his hot, warm, heated, hot breath in her ear as he explained the secrets of the German victory at Stalingrad.

Boris rose from the chaise-longue and, with a manly scratch of his rock-hard buttocks, walked to the window. “They’re coming for me Nadine,” he said. “The enemies of Britain. They hate the way I’ve turned this country into a low-tax paradise for ordinary men and women. They despise my excellent Brexit deal, which in no way fell apart as soon as I signed it. They’re weary of the tremendously stable and decisive government that I lead. They resent my 50-point lead in the polls. They envy my unrivalled sexual prowess.”

“But why, Boris, who could want you gone, when the people crowd the streets cheering your name, when ordinary billionaires queue up to pay your decorating bills?”

His only reply was a sad, furious, decisive, masculine gesture towards the door. Trembling, fearful that her knees would give way at any moment, such was the sheer potency of his testosterone, Nadine walked over and opened it. The large atrium was tastefully adorned with the very latest Lulu Lytle Rappers DeeLite Gold-Style Eezy-Peel wallpaper, part of her best-selling “Oligarch” collection. Its installation in Downing Street had been generously funded by a consortium of future peers.

Cabinet ministers stood around the room, some in clumps, some alone. There was Michelle Donelan, explaining that she’d joined the Cabinet by mistake. There was Nadhim Zahawi, composing a letter explaining that Boris should probably resign, unless he didn’t want to, and that in any case he should definitely come back in a couple of months.

Her eye was drawn to the hideous misshapen figure of the Levelling Up Secretary, drooling uncontrollably as he whispered into his phone. “Just put ‘Friends of Michael Gove said his only concern was the good of the country that he loves,’” he lisped  before hanging up. He lurched over to Nadine, his hunched back swaying as he dragged his revolting form towards her. As ever, she fought to urge to retch.

“You cannot save him, Nadine,” Gove said. “My powers have grown too great. Even now my minions are at work, spreading false tales of his debauchery to impressionable MPs.”

“Why do you hate him so?”

“Because he is everything I am not! How I envy his perfect union of mind and his body! How I despise his honesty and probity! For years we have been rivals, first as newspaper columnists and now in government. But I knew I could never equal his way with words. That was why in my days at The Times I sought… medicinal… aid.” He sniffed. “And that was why I laid my trap for him in government, deceiving him into breaking the law and tricking him into saying things that were obviously untrue again and again and again over a period of years. A man with Boris’s inner nobility could never conceive of a politician lying to him. He never stood a chance.”

“You fiend!”

“I am a fiend! It was I who organised the Abba party and I who was behind the cake ambush! It was I who arranged the lovely weather and urged Number 10 staff to make the most of it! I who explained to Dom that opticians recommend driving your children down a motorway as the safest means of testing your eyesight! The wine fridge? My idea! And now that my dastardly plan has worked and Boris is finally on the way out, there will be no one to keep me from taking the prize I desire most of all, my pretty…” He twirled his moustache and grabbed Nadine’s wrist. She gasped and jumped back, like a startled faun.

“Unhand her, you monster!” Behind her, the doors crashed open, and Boris, stripped to the waist, stood manfully wielding a sword that he had, that very moment, pulled down from the wall. “No lady will be debauched in my presence!”

“At last we face each other,” Gove hissed, unsheathing a twisted dagger, dripping with foul poison, from inside his suit.

Will Boris save Nadine’s virtue and rule with peace and justice for evermore? Will cowardly MPs and lying journalists depose the greatest ruler any country has ever known? Is there any chardonnay left in the press office fridge? Find out with the publication of Boris: Hunk of Destiny (£2.99 or £1 from WHSmith with a large bar of Dairy Milk).

Enjoying The Critic online? It's even better in print

Try five issues of Britain’s newest magazine for £10

Critic magazine cover