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Operation Big Dog Andrex puppy of politics is in the doghouse

'If Boris can behave himself, he'll be allowed on the furniture again'

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Boris Johnston

Boris Johnston

Boris Johnston

Operation Big Dog is in action to save Boris Johnston. If he can behave himself, he’ll be allowed on the furniture again.

It’s a mystery how his desperate team came up with the name after spending years with the lolloping Great Dane.

They could only keep him tied up for so long after his apology before the most recent apology, but he had to be let out again last week. Have they tried a rolled-up newspaper?

The political colossus, supposedly a leader on the world stage, was in danger of going back to the kennels again when he literally hung his head and stared at the floor as he was asked about apologising to the Queen for partying the night before her husband’s funeral.

When your dog does that you know they’ve eaten your favourite shoes, or had a Covid shindig.

His excuse to Sky was that ‘nobody told me’ a party was illegal. But at least he’s still got ‘a big boy did it and ran away’ in reserve.

It wasn’t a great start to Op Big Dog and the launch of Operation Red Meat, an attempt to distract the public from his hopeless buffoonery.

When a government is prepared to throw a slightly startled Royal Navy at migrants in the English Channel and burn the BBC to the ground to divert our attention, we know they have steaming piles of scandal to hide. If he gets caught out again, they’ll decommission Love Island.

As Operation Pork Pie was launched – at least there are operations happening somewhere – a band of rebels threatened to oust their leader, which really got his attention because what dog doesn’t love a pie?

They were then threatened with blackmail and defunding but of course Boris saw no evidence of anything. Why would he? He’s too busy licking his nether regions.

Even David Davis’s ‘for the love of God go, and fetch the newspaper’ had little effect.

In the middle of the chaos, which is at least a welcome distraction from impending war in Ukraine, surely the DUP must be red hot with shame that they’re still backing the Andrex puppy of politics.

A double jobbing offer which would have allowed Jeffrey Donaldson to be an MP and an MLA and therefore First Minister was snatched away last week by the Latin-spouting Labrador like a frisbee in mid-flight.

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He’s also continued to shaft them over the Protocol, but they resolutely refuse to see what every other party here had stated plainly – that Boris should be sent to live on a farm in the country.

The problem is we’re all left to clean up the mess on the carpet.

  • SNOB ANDREW'S LATEST ROYAL LOWNESS

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Prince Andrew. Photo: Neil Hall/PA

Prince Andrew. Photo: Neil Hall/PA

Prince Andrew. Photo: Neil Hall/PA

Life refuses to get any better for Prince Andrew after a documentary revealed he has a teddy bear collection on his bed, which must be arranged perfectly by the staff or he throws a tantrum.

It doesn’t do much for his military man image, but it explains why he likes hanging out with teenage girls. You be Barbie, I’ll be Ken.

A former maid didn’t help when she revealed he’d demand staff come and close his curtains while he sat next to the troublesome drapes.

It’s amazing that when we treat people like royalty, they behave like royalty.

  • ONE HELL OF A PERFORMER

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Meat Loaf performs on stage at the Capital Radio Party in the Park, in Hyde Park (PA)

Meat Loaf performs on stage at the Capital Radio Party in the Park, in Hyde Park (PA)

Meat Loaf performs on stage at the Capital Radio Party in the Park, in Hyde Park (PA)

RIP Meat Loaf, the sweaty, manic chronicler of teenage angst whose power ballads thrilled a generation and really annoyed their parents.

Before the nerds get going, he was the Elton John to Jim Steinman’s Bernie Taupin, the frontman who delivered, usually surrounded by women with very few clothes on. He was a big guy who needed the window dressing, and it was the seventies.

There will never be another performer like the Bat Out of Hell singer. And if there was, he’d have to be called Nut Roast.

  • ALEXA'S A TURN-OFF

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Alexa devices are down across the UK (PA)

Alexa devices are down across the UK (PA)

Alexa devices are down across the UK (PA)

The world teetered on its axis on Friday morning when Alexa had a menopausal moment and refused to work properly.

Ours wouldn’t obey voice commands and kept turning the radio on. Usually she just pretends she can’t understand the accent.

Other users complained they couldn’t turn their Alexa alarms off.

It’s a glimpse of a bleak future when it takes five minutes to work out you have to switch a malfunctioning gadget off at the wall.

But seriously, Amazon, sort this out. I had to turn Stephen Nolan off manually.

  • THORNY ISSUE OF TRUE LOVE FOR MEGAN

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Megan Fox and Machine Gun Kelly. Photo: Phillip Faraone/Getty Images

Megan Fox and Machine Gun Kelly. Photo: Phillip Faraone/Getty Images

Megan Fox and Machine Gun Kelly. Photo: Phillip Faraone/Getty Images

Transformers actor Megan Fox’s engagement ring has come in for some flak after her fiancé Machine Gun Kelly (real name Clive or Nigel) claimed there were thorns on the inside so it would cause her pain to remove it.

Megan, ditched from the robot film franchise after comparing the director to Hitler, hasn’t commented publicly on the ring claims.

She’s just delighted anyone remembers who she is.

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Many people want to make changes in the New Year, but resolutions are usually abandoned

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Roisin Gorman’s Open Letter… on New Year’s resolution

MY New Year’s resolutions went down quicker than a nice prosecco. It’s a relief to get them out of the way. I’m full of admiration for anyone who’s currently on the wrong end of Veganuary and wondering if aquafaba is a new Swedish supergroup, but in the middle of winter, in the middle of a pandemic and a post-carb slump, my life renovations can wait until the weather warms up. Nearly half of us will have promised to make enormous alterations to our existence according to a GoCompare study from last year, and it will take seven weeks until the bloom of New Year enthusiasm disappears like a middle-aged waistline. The favourites are: exercise more, eat better, save more, travel more, save the planet and spend less time on social media. Under that kind of pressure, I wouldn’t last until lunchtime. And under the deluge of perky slogans that stalk us as a new year dawns, it’s almost your duty to ignore them. Who can read ‘New Year is the glittering light to brighten the dream-lined pathway of future’ and not reach for the snooze button and the last of the Quality Street? And ‘Don’t live the same year 75 times and call it a life’ is more alarming than inspirational. A sort of vaguely half-hearted goal is to find something the husband and I can share, although we do bond over comedy repeats and falling asleep in front of the TV. We’ve tried many things over the years. In a fit of cardiac abandon there was badminton, until I realised I’d covered several miles around the court while he stood still and ran me like a Labrador. He could have done his online shopping and had a beer and still won. There was a disastrous attempt at golf to take an interest in his interests. I’d tee off with people called Marjorie and share hilarious hole-by-hole anecdotes. My swing was a thing of beauty until its apex when it became a downward forehand smash that left my elbows numb. That was the end of golf. I never liked Marjorie anyway. There was a brief flirtation with bikes, but apparently you can forget how to ride one. I travelled 10 feet, hit a lamppost and did the travelling public a favour by never getting on a bike again. Next we moved indoors to more cerebral, but more importantly less dangerous activities. Backgammon is brilliant. Beaten every time. Monopoly went on for ever. Still beaten every time, but by the end I was praying for bankruptcy. Scrabble would be a doddle since words are my livelihood. I’ll see your ‘qi’ on a triple letter score and raise you ‘befriends’ over two triple word scores. That one still hurts. We played card games like Texas hold ’em, but when someone has to explain what a poker face is, it’s probably not a good start. There was even a brief period of cribbage, which sounds like it should be played in crinoline and a whalebone corset. It was also a personal disgrace that I couldn’t hang on to the simplest of maths formulas at school, but I could remember the ridiculously complicated format of a game clearly dreamt up by someone on crystal meth. Under pressure to come up with yet another hobby, we realised we’d just spent nearly two years locked up together, so it’s a golf weekend for him and a spa day for me. Until then, Happy New Year, everyone. Email roisin.gorman@sundayworld.com

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