When he’s not busy inviting Rupert Murdoch as his personal guest to the London ‘Lympics L’2012, London Mayor Boris Johnson, wanker, likes to hang off zip lines, Union Jack in each hand, continuing to take credit for the 2012 Olympics in spite of the fact he had fuck all to do with them. Unless you count taking credit for them.
Boris Johnson, prize cunt, is no doubt under the impression this stunt is endearing. Boris Johnson is not endearing. He is, however, a knob. Quite a lumpen one at that, with hair that should only be seen above the lips of women with excess testosterone.
If he stays there for a while, he could become part of the London Cultural Olympiad. People could gather beneath him, pointing and laughing and cartwheeling, throwing bits of old quiche at him, like back in the good old days when Paul McCartney (how modern of him to take his daughter’s name!) would trot on down to the Southbank and lob veggie sausages at David Blaine-in-a-box.