Boris Johnson Should Be Arrested For Crimes Against Children

By Tom Penn

Haven’t teenagers got enough on their plate as it is, without being badgered, bribed or bullied into having the experimental Covid-stab – a shot-in-the-arm with a dose of the filthy bathwater of black-hearted politricks?

What is wrong with you Boris, that you wish to heap further terror and potential health-ruin upon the long-suffering young? Who are you bowing to? Theories abound, but surely it is to Lucifer himself, for you to be faking yourself God with such flippant abandon?

Never before has life for juveniles been so obscenely hyper-complex; so ultra-confusing. That you now feel it your patriotic duty to pierce their naive, impressionable flesh with the tetanus of your chaotic national-resilience strategies, is a scandalous desecration of thousands of years of honed, ethical scrutiny.

Our youth – the sons and daughters of the Shit-show Empire of which you now find yourself Ringmaster – are beset by social, familial, psychological, behavioural, technological, and physiological dilemmas the magnitude of which you couldn’t possibly have even fathomed as a tubby little authoritarian-arse in the making.

You cannot fail to have noticed this. Yet you choose to turn a blind eye and toss instead a toxic nail-bomb into the mix; just to be sure that future compliance in Government’s dastardly dealings shall be guaranteed – via the emerging generation’s incessant, bewildered distraction with their own burgeoning problems.

That cartoon blob of Coronavirus that you encourage your sycophantic media to emblazon across their ‘journalism’ – as if such cacodemons are floating down every corridor and street in the land – is naught but a Medusa’s head of fresh hell. Each smurf-like spike a new barb for Her Majesty’s youngest subjects to snag themselves on unawares; the next gaggle of flag-waving lemmings successfully programmed to march towards the precipice.

You know full-well that your child-soldiers are a vulnerable lot: a troop of depressed, tech-dependant, overweight, spiritually-undernourished, narcissistic, oft-suicidal, culturally and politically-abused susceptibles. They need help Boris – shielding – not a political-tranquiliser disguised as Calpol.

But instead of extending out your prodigious influential clout as one might an olive branch, you proffer instead the unsubstantiated, ill-advised Deadly Nightshade of brutal smackdowns – the masks, the broken education, the house-arrest, the strangulation of vigour, the time lost, the divisions, the NHS backlog; the fear, the paranoia, the hypochondria – the hard-to-swallow, bitter pills that anyone daring to spill the milk of their vitality and reason must force down, whilst retching on your doctrine.

And now you want to slosh your unsafe, emergency-use-only seed around the organs of adolescents incapable of providing genuinely informed consent, because you promulgate only the sham benefits of this miracle cure-all; absence of any verifiable emergency notwithstanding. Don’t they have enough balls to juggle as it is, without the additional slippery consequences of being impregnated with the sewage of your own?

Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, I declare you Britain’s most notorious ever paedophile. Let there be an incensed Officer of the Law with brass balls enough to march up to Number 10 and arrest you for your crimes against children. And fear not for your job brave Officer, for if you are dismissed for subordination, rest assured that the humans among us will organise a national whip-round to keep you and your family afloat for as long as necessary; taking the knee at our children’s football games in salute of your heroism.

If the United Kingdom had a culture of permitting laxly-vetted citizens firearms licenses, I’m confident, Boris, that your brains would long-ago have been splattered across a giant rainbow-mural. And the perpetrator would not have been an unhinged gunman barely out of his teens, from Plymouth, but a morally upstanding, dignified person who understands that it is your chicken-hearted credo of social-decay we need vaccinating against. Not cartoon Covid.

You’re terrified aren’t you Boris: terrified of how humane you have the potential to be. You’re horror-struck at any temptation to depart from the norm, and benevolently lead the charge towards collective decency, just in case your geopolitical pals exclude you from their games.

What happened to you in childhood? Who touched you? Did someone in a position of trust and authority put something icky inside you? Tell us, it’s okay. Let it out. We might be able to help. Unlike you, we will not exploit your sorrow, weaponise it, and then fire it back at you as guilt. Have no fear. You’ll be surprised how wonderful brotherly and sisterly love feels.

But no, you daren’t relinquish your thuggish reputation in this playground of foul-ups – emotionally scarred, and empathetically underdeveloped as you are – not now that the extorted milk-money of power has proved such a potent aphrodisiac. And unfortunately, for the most unworldly, immature targets of your totalitarian tantrums – for whom life itself is just a twinkle in their eyes – it is a man petrified of intimacy granted the un-vetted license to crap all over them.

Prior to his recent killing spree, Jake Davison, in YouTube videos that have since been removed, spoke of being “beaten down” and “defeated by life”. He said he felt socially-isolated Boris. Who’s fault is that? Do those two words ring a distant bell? His blood, and those of his victims, is all over your hands too you know. Although I dare say by now you have developed such a taste for it that you spread it on the toast you devour by the loaf-full at breakfast; crunching away whilst simultaneously aroused by the illegal fear-porn of the morning’s headlines.

AstraZeneca Boris de Pfizer Johnson, remove the predatory needle of your member from the innocence of our youth, and just bugger off will you; before someone unloads their grief on you.

And the next time you pay a visit to Devon – perhaps to have your photo taken on the seafront, standing in front of the Plymouth Naval Memorial; scoffing a Mr. Whippy – best bring with you additional security, because some of us grown-up kiddiewinks down here have right-royally had enough of your unchecked child-molestation.

Many fraying tempers are in a bona fide state of alarm. Don’t be thinking there’s not someone capable of taking you well before your time too.