These are the days of miracle and wonder. The country just laughed when Theresa May promised “strong and stable” leadership. Now it’s beginning to wonder if she might not have had a point. Classic Dom.

Boris Johnson’s speech at a police academy in Wakefield was the shitshow to end all shitshows. It made his dystopian performances at the dispatch box over the previous two days look like models of sanity and coherence. Even May’s P45, loss of voice and collapsing scenery at the Tory party conference weren’t as excruciating to watch as this. The Clown Prince completely out of his head. Acid? Heroin? Cocaine? Or a cocktail of all three? If the UK is to be a failed state, it has found its ideal leader. Classic Dom.

When half the country is shouting, “Stop the coup!” in protest at the prime minister shutting down parliament, choosing to launch your election campaign surrounded by police recruits at a training academy is not the best of looks. Either for the government or the police. But this was Boris. A man for whom other people are mere satellites orbiting his sun. Rushing on his run. He felt just like Jesus’s son. And he guessed that he just didn’t know. Classic Dom.

Johnson says 'I'd rather be dead in a ditch' than agree Brexit extension Read more

What followed was a full-on breakdown. Both physical and mental. The narcissistic wound exposed as an infected open sore. Most leaders at least turn up with a speech they have prepared. However deathless the prose. Johnson prefers to wing it. The arrogant stream of pure unconsciousness. The bumbling worked for £25K after-dinner speeches when everyone was a bit pissed. It would work here. Classic Dom.

He was pleased to be wherever it was he had come to. Ah yes, he thought, for the first time noticing the grim faces of the policemen and women whom he’d kept standing around waiting for more than an hour. Police. We needed more of them. Especially if he was going to waste their time like this. Classic Dom.

“I used to be …” His voice tailed off. Boris couldn’t quite remember what it was he used to be. Prime minister? Surely not. That would be ridiculous. Then he had the most excruciating flashback. A wild hallucination of an incriminating laptop and wine stains on the carpet. The last time he had been surrounded by so many police. Classic Dom.

Johnson started rambling, desperately trying to navigate a way back to the present. A caution. That’s what the police had done when he had been collared. “Um … er …” he began. How did it go again? “You do not have to say anything … um … you know how it goes, don’t you?” he continued, turning round to ask the police lined up behind him. They looked blankly ahead, avoiding his gaze. Who was this man? “If you fail to mention … shomefing on swhich shoo later rely.” By now he was slurring every other word. Classic Dom.

Play Video 0:56 Boris Johnson rambles through attempt to recite police caution – video

There was this plan. He didn’t want an election. Oh no! And when didn’t he want an election? 15 October. That was why he was making an election speech for an election he didn’t want. He didn’t want the election so much he was going to try a second time to fool the Labour party into giving him the election he didn’t want. Thank you and goodnight. His eyes closed briefly as he appeared to pass out. Classic Dom.

A few seconds later, he came to. What happened next? That was it. Questions. There were some people to ask him questions. Hello, Wakefield! Almost all the questions predictably focused on the resignation of his brother earlier that day. If he couldn’t even keep Jo in the party – let alone the other 21 other moderates he’d also slung out – what chance did he have of gaining the trust of the entire country? His mouth opened and closed, wordlessly. Classic Dom.

Finally he managed something approaching a sentence. “My brother has been a fantastic …” What was the job he had given his backstabbing, dumbass brother again? His mind had gone blank. Say something, Boris, he told himself. Something. Anything. Have a guess. “Science minister.” Shit. He knew he’d got it wrong. Jo was the sodding universities minister. Anyway, who cared? Jo was dead to him. Since when did a Johnson ever have a fit of conscience? It would tarnish the brand. Classic Dom.

Johnson continued ad-libbing. He’d die in a ditch if Britain wasn’t out of the EU by 31 October. Probably preferable to dying on his feet, as he was now. Just then, he heard a noise behind him and turned round. A policewoman had collapsed. He shrugged, took a sip of water, and carried on talking. She needed to toughen up a bit. Post-Brexit Britain was no place for the weak. Besides, his need was so clearly greater than hers. He was the World King. And if she died, he could always just recruit 20,001 new recruits. Classic Dom.

Slowly, the drugs began to wear off, and Johnson stumbled back indoors. “You nailed it,” said Dom and Dommer encouragingly. “You were so bad, you were brilliant. We’ve got them exactly where we want them.” Classic, classic Dom.