Where's my penguins, Boris?

I was really fucking disimpressed and monstrously frustrappointed to find out we weren’t going to be getting real penguins.

Boris Johnson promised us free trade and some kick arse penguins.

Or so it seemed until, like the large but unknowable number of women who have inexplicably allowed Johnson to impregnate them, we were overcome by the creeping suspicion that promises made would not magically transform into promises kept and, sadly, we weren’t getting our fucking penguins.

Instead we were getting these shitty little fail biscuits.

Perfidious Albion’s professionally amateur Prime Minister, as ever cosplaying the aftermath of a devastating agricultural accident involving one extra-large boiled egg and a novelty hairpiece fashioned from Saville Row’s finest albino hamster pelts, performed upon the Twitters yesterday.

Apparently for our benefit.

And shortly afterwards for New Zealand.

The oh-so carefully disheveled Johnson recorded an amuse-bouche en vidéo for the survivors of King George III’s South Pacific gulag experiment (spoiler, us) in which he effusively fapped on about all the lovely quids we’d all be making now those dreadful continental Johnnies had been shoved out of way.

“So we already import colossal quantities of absolutely delicious Australian wine,” he said, before repeating himself for the benefit of our vowel-deprived cousins across the Tasman, about three minutes and one quick costume change later, “I mean, let’s face it, we buy colossal quantities of New Zealand wine…”

If nothing else, evidence of Johnson’s personal consumption of colossal quantities of Jacobs Creek’s freshest leg openers provided a plausible explanation for the dubious life choices made by all those otherwise intelligent women he has serially impregnated lo’ these many years.

But none of it spoke to our promised penguins.

“I want a world in which we send you Marmite and you send us Vegemite,” Boris said, skilfully combining abysmal lies with outrageous threats, before going on to add, “We send you send Penguins, and you send us, with reduced tariffs, these wonderful Arnott’s Tim Tams.”

He duly produced the Tim Tams but tellingly, no corresponding penguins made their screen debut.

Brits were unimpressed…

But not as unimpressed as those of us anticipating a sudden flood of cheap and cheerful British penguins which we might actually enjoy as an alternative to the disgracefully expensive tuxedo chickens available at a hefty mark up from the monopoly providers of local penguins on Philip Island.

You can imagine the dismay upon finding out the proffered penguins were in fact just a sadly inferior Tim Tam knock off from McVities, the company which famously sucked all the joy from biscuit eating, to be replaced with the endless grinding of aching molars on these flavourless jawbreakers of hard-baked woodchips and regret.

The whole damn penguin thing was an experience akin to anticipating the gift of a magical rainbow unicorn and instead receiving Caligula’s horse. Or a small, rustic effigy of Caligula’s horse. Made from horseshit.

Johnson’s offer did posit one unexpected benefit. It begged the question of what the benighted kingdom could possibly offer either of its upstart colonial offspring by way of a decent trade.

Think about it.

What does Britain have to offer?

A plentiful supply of butlers? Mad cow disease? Quiet desperation?

There is at least an elegant sufficiency of that. The risible nature of all this free trade yammering is thrown into relief by the advanced state of Australia’s separate FTA negotiations with the EU. By remaining in the bloc the Brits would have got their Tim Tams and a lot more. The penguin swap is simply theatre to provide Johnson with a bit of sound and movement to distract from the economic carnage which is coming after a hard Brexit, on the heels of the coronapocalypse. Both of which disasters this gurning idiot has made considerably worse.