Boris Johnson has broken all his promises. Tory and Labour voters alike have little patience left for a sub-Prime Minister

You join us, Dear Reader, on the famous white cliffs on the south coast. Note the good, British common sense displayed by the day-trippers who are dangling, Darwin-defyingly, over the precipice so they can take a selfie of what they hope will be the moment they did not die.

What they do not know is that the edge is not the only issue. Beneath their feet is 100million years' worth of crushed sea creatures, whose skeletons have been ground to powder. In the dry, it crumbles. In the rain, it collapses. In the event some pillock hops up and down on it, it turns to dust.

Narrow the focus, zoom in, and see among them a wild-haired blond who looks like the offspring of a spaniel and a laundry hamper, unironed and insane. He dashes around and woofs, chases his tail, puts his nose up skirts, gets them all giggling.

Then he finds himself at the edge. He hesitates. He appears to wonder if he should leave them to it, then decides no, it is his task to keep the humans safe. And so he tries to herd them up, but being quite mad he first pushes them towards the cliff, then barks furiously to drive them back.

The creature worries at the crowd, ties them up with his lead, stops them buying ice creams, splits them from their children, and won't let them get in their cars. Eventually, when they see he's let one or two people wander off, a majority of those he has penned in decide to make a break for it. Some dash for the parking area, others burst like shrapnel in any direction, one or two head mistakenly over the edge to their doom. And quite a few, if they get close enough, take a kick at the poor mutt whose antics were such fun at first, and so maddening now.

The cliff empties, one way or another. Ambulances arrive to scoop up the bodies, and police are called to deal with the menace which still snuffles around the cliff-top like he owns the place. He is given a choice - leave gracefully, or be removed by force. The old dog sits, looking sad, and wonders what went wrong.

Boris Johnson's promise to voters was mixed, but resoundingly positive. The reality is only negative. He promised not to be a chaotic Leftie, but has been a chaotic prat, instead.

He promised 50,000 new nurses, but killed at least 300 health and care workers, instead. He promised 20,000 new police, but asked the few he had to police impossible laws, instead.

He promised to Get Brexit Done, but the entire United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland is not Brexiting, as it said on the ballot paper. He promised no border checks in Northern Ireland, then introduced them anyway.

He promised to "level up" in traditional Labour areas where voters gifted him their support for the first time. Then he watched while people died there in greater numbers, and the only levelling done was to pat down the soil on fresh graves.

He promised to be the party of financial caution, while indicating he had located a flourishing money tree. Then he set fire to it, and no-one believes his subsequent promise not to make us pay for its absence.

He promised to lead the natural party of government, to be the white-bred, well-educated, born-to-lead, middle-aged, male, privileged patriarchy that, for its multitude of flaws, at least knows how to rule. Then he produced a personality-free personality cult of fourth-raters, gibbering sycophantically as authority seeps away from the Establishment like ice cream down the leg of a small child, and genuine poshos quietly rescind all future weekend invitations to the lot of them.

He promised shenanigans, buffoonery, entertainment, and to shake things up. The early promise of his "technology lessons" with a buxom wench seemingly unable to keep her mouth shut evaporated like morning mist when the blazing glare of Proper Work burned down upon him.

He promised, above all, that this was the job he had wanted all his life. Now, after he has thrown his political legacy, his Prime Ministerial authority, and his government's credibility under a bus to protect his adviser Dominic Cummings, he has effectively announced that he is not even in charge.

He is not first among equals, but second to a maniac bombing up the M1 with a car packed full of coronavirus. He does not lead a government, but is merely one of a number of fools filling the same cheap suit. He is a sub-Prime Minister, a debt growing greater with every denial, every death, every day of continued dicking-about.

He went into lockdown late, and only because other people thought he should. He is therefore lifting lockdown later than everywhere else, and doing it only because other people are bored, broke, or an embuggerance.

Cummings has let it be known he might resign at Christmas, when it suits him and the eggs he has laid at the heart of government are ready to hatch. But as Harvard and Oxford-educated epidemiolgist Professor David Hunter writes today in The Guardian, it is also "when the colder weather sends us back indoors, without a vaccine, and unless contract tracing is massively stepped up, there will be a second wave".

The science he promised to follow now advises him that there were 54,000 infections in the UK last week, that the R-rate is increasing, and that in backing Cummings' interpretation of the rules he has "given the green light to long-distance travel", to both the virus and its victims.

There is no promise Johnson made, be it to Brexiters, long-term Tories, or those who lent him their vote not 6 months ago, that he has kept. The rich are horrified, the poor have died, the employed are going to lose their jobs, and the self-employed are about to be taxed to kingdom come.

Before the pandemic arrived, Johnson's credibility was starting to crumble under pressure of Brexit. When the rains came, he collapsed. And having hopped about like a pillock on the office of all previous prime ministers, to protect a man whose job is to be politically disposable, the ground beneath his feet is as dust. If only there had been some sign in the public record that he had a tendency to lie.

Johnson may have been born to lead, but he was always bound to fail. He promised to be Churchill, but now he couldn't even sell car insurance.