This Little Piggie Had None

One of the best ways to forget our own misfortunes is to contemplate the lot of those less fortunate than ourselves; so those of us facing such minor inconveniences as poverty, homelessness or arbitrary deportation may find their lives slightly improved by considering the travails of Britain's late Head Boy. It seems he has been hoping someone will make his mark for him in the arena of international affairs, presumably in compensation for the howls of vulgar derision with which the lesser breeds greeted his efforts to toddle into the Foreign Office. Having apparently heard something to the effect that co-operation with the Heathen Chinee might be rather a jolly wheeze, the puce one has been agonising over the title for his memoirs and waiting strenuously for the beastly foreigners to come kowtowing to his shed's servants' entrance. Nevertheless, matters have so far failed to progress, except in the optimistic grunting and squealing of a spokesbeing for the great statesman's office. Possibly the Heathen Chinee are aware of the generally regrettable relationship between the late Head Boy's promises and his actions, from his burbling of sweet nothings about the NHS while waving his disabled child's corpse in the air, to his jowl-wobbling determination to see the Brexit process through no matter what, to the trail of regional stability whose centre is liberated Libya. Whatever the reasons behind this latest inscrutable subtlety of the Heathen Chinee, the Year of the Pig has thus far left Britain's late Head Boy looking quite the sorry little porker.