In an imaginary pub, open during lockdown.
“I had no idea she was that pregnant, to be honest.”
“No?”
“No. Well I thought, what with him nearly dying and rising again at Easter, that Baby Boris would be putting in an appearance at Christmas.”
“Christmas! You’re a one! She’d hardly be pregnant at all if she wasn’t due until Christmas.”
“Ah, I guess so, just me being poetic. But anyway, what are they going to call her now?”
“It’s a baby boy!”
“No, not the baby, her, what’s her name, Carrie.”
“What do you mean, what are we going to call Carrie?”
“Well she’s always been Pregnant Girlfriend Carrie or Pregnant Fiancée Carrie, she’s going to need a new nickname now. Baby Mother Carrie, maybe.”
“Don’t be so daft, she doesn’t need giving a nickname.”
“Not by you maybe, but the press will. She’ll be defined by her relationship to himself, what with him being the prime minister and everything.”
“Oh.”
“Think about it. It happens all the time. Tell you what, I’ll list all the women owners of the mainstream British media.”
“Go on then.”
“I just did. Want me to do it again?”
“Oh. I see. I think.”
“Anyway, bless the child being born a boy. If she was a girl the papers would definitely have christened her Corona.”
“Ah, yeah. Or maybe Covidia, that sounds posher.”
“Poor bastard’s going to end up christened Boris Winston Brexit Johnson isn’t he?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Same again?”
Steve White & The Protest Family 