*Up to a point

Extracts from Boris Johnson’s journal (or not)

 Thursday, June 15

Somewhere between rumpy-pumpy and lights-out, I turn to the woman I love for a few words of comfort.

“I’m worried about tomorrow, Charlie,” I say. “I don’t think I shall sleep tonight. Those bastards on the privileges committee are going to let me have it with both barrels, aren’t they?”

“Yes, Boris. It’s Carrie, by the way.”

“Carrie! Carrie! Yes, of course you are. Sorry, darling, it’s just that it’s one thing after another at the moment. Forgive me. It was a slip of the tongue, an honest mistake.”

“Honest?”

“Oh, don’t you start! And what’s that look? There’s no need for the death stare, darling, I’m a man under pressure. First it was my honours list. All those loyal friends and comrades – why are you smiling, darling? – chopped mercilessly by that lightweight Sunak.

“I never trusted him, he’s not a proper Conservative. Have you seen his suits? Fit where they touch. The man gave away about 125 billion quid during the Covid shenanigans – 125 billion!”

“I thought that was your idea, Boris.”

“Was it? Well, recollections may vary, but it means we are broke, completely boracic, haven’t got a pot to piss in.”

“Are we?”

“We’re not, obviously. In fact, I’ve got funds coming in soon from a Tory donor in Abu Dhabi. But the country is skint and those traitors on the privileges committee want to rip my epaulettes off. Infamy, infamy, they’ve all got it in for me… That was a joke, Caz.”

“Kenneth Williams, Carry on Cleo, 1964. And don’t call me Caz. Or Charlie.”

“No, right, understood. But look, they’re out to desiccate me like a bloody coconut, sully my reputation, trash my legacy.”

“Boris, you haven’t got a reputation to sully, or a legacy to trash.”

“I say, that’s a bit harsh, Char- I mean…”

“Stick to darling, Boris, it’s safer.”

“Look here, I don’t care what they think of me. But as for my legacy, I got Brexit done, didn’t I? And I got the country vaccinated in double quick time. Surely I deserve some credit for that?”

“Of course you do, Boris. Anyway, I thought more than half of this committee were Tories. Why aren’t they supporting you?”

“Exactly! Et tu, Brute. Bunch of lily-livered backstabbers. And as for that Bernard Jenkin, he was at it just as much as I was, er, wasn’t. Bloody hypocrite was guzzling Dundee cake and cheap Prosecco for his wife’s birthday.”

“Apparently, he denies it.”

“So do I! And which one of us is being defenestrated?”

“They say he’s a nudist, or naturist, or whatever they call themselves. Is that true, Boris?”

“Of course he is! It’s a case of The Emperor’s New Clothes, Carrie… “

“Oh, well done, darling! You got my name right.”

“Hmmm. Was that irony I detected, my love? Anyway, in the end, just like the story, someone will see through him, mark my words.”

“Will that mean you can come back? No, Boris! Do NOT do your Arnie impression.”

“Sorry, second nature. But, yes, if the people want me, I stand ready to serve. Vox populi, vox dei.”

“I don’t have the benefit of your classical education, Boris. I only did History of Art and Theatre Studies at Warwick. So enlighten me.”

“It means the voice of the people is the voice of god, darling. Look, since we’re not going to get much sleep, what say we… Carrie, don’t you turn your back on me, too!”

 Friday, June 16

Another day, another onslaught. The privileges committee has eviscerated me. I’m gutted and strung up like the family pig at a Tuscan feast.

They say I have lied repeatedly and misled Parliament. They claim I whooped it up at parties at No. 10 while the rest of the country faced being banged up for sneaking out of lockdown to see their nearest and dearest.

Well, while there might have been drink available (heaven knows we all needed cheering up) those gatherings were work. Somebody had to run the country while everyone else was cowering indoors hiding from President Xi’s generous gift to humanity.

Besides, have you ever been to a party organised by The Blob? Warm Bulgarian plonk, Tesco vol-au-vents and penny plain women. You can have more fun in an abattoir.

Their report is 33,000 words of horse manure, a political lynching. I said as much, though in more carefully chosen words. “Deranged”, I called it and “a protracted political assassination” by Harriet Harman and her henchman Bernard Jenkin.

Because I had the audacity to speak up in my own defence, they gave me 90 days in solitary and banished me from the Mother of Parliaments by stripping me of my pass. Come again? I was the head honcho there till five minutes ago. Honchissimus Maximus, as it were.

Still, I should care. I rather cunningly resigned as an MP the moment I got wind of their “findings”, so they can do their worst. I forget now, but it might have been Carrie’s idea. Dux femina facti – a woman leads the events!

Saturday, June 17

Those blighters at the Security Services have stuck their oar in again. They’ve told the Government not to let me have my notebooks back. Embarrassing, really, and bloody inconvenient.

I’m trying to write my memoirs for HarperCollins and I must say the advance came in useful when I was buying the Oxfordshire pad that Carrie insisted we have, despite the ball-shrivelling £3.8 million price tag. But how’s a chap supposed to get to the nitty-gritty of the momentous world events he shaped if he hasn’t got his aide memoire to hand?

I think I know what’s troubling the spooks, though. It’s the reference to my offer to nuke Putin’s palace on the Black Sea for my buddy Volodymyr. It came at the end of a long afternoon during which we bonded over a bottle of lemon vodka.

Naturally, I offered him further aid in his fight against Russian tyranny and he slipped me a piece of paper with the number of an account in the Caymans. I must have looked a bit quizzical because he assured me this was where Ukraine kept its cash safe from Mad Vlad.

That’s when I mentioned the nuke thing. It was a joke, obvs. And anyway, Volodymyr pointed out that, while Putin’s palace is on the Black Sea, so is Ukraine, and my brainwave might possibly lead to a Pyrrhic victory. There’s no pleasing some people.

Meanwhile, the new column seems to have gone down well. I rather liked the name: “Boris, the column the whole world’s talking about”. Not quite as revealing as the Daily Mail had hoped for, I suspect, but it certainly pays well. I intend to use the column to take my revenge. As Virgil said, Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo – If I cannot sway the heavens, I will raise hell.

I couldn’t go back to the Telegraph, not after those disobliging comments from my old Editor, Max Hastings (“The only people who like Boris Johnson are those who don’t know him.”)

And I’m afraid I couldn’t take up the offer from somebody called Lord Drone (he claims to have gone to school with my father but Pa never mentioned him) because he wanted me to do it for nothing. Yes, really.

 Sunday, June 18

Father’s Day and I can hardly move for cards. I don’t even know who some of them are from. Entire mantelpieces have been taken over to accommodate the childish drawings. Some were accompanied by far-fetched claims about liaisons in broom cupboards or the like. A lesser man might be offended, but not yours truly.

Before I broke out the Pol Roger – my favourite champagne, as well as Churchill’s – I thought I’d go for a jog with Dilyn. The little mutt loves it and if I didn’t have him on a lead he’d be there and back in less time than it took for Liz Truss to be found out as PM.

I thought it might be safe now that the Press has calmed down a bit. But no. I turn the corner by the churchyard and there’s the reporter from Sky again, trotting along beside me, sticking a mic up my nose and asking questions about ANOTHER party.

I couldn’t outpace her, so I tried to shake her off with a version of my Peppa Pig routine. But I can’t run and talk at the same time and in the end, I had to resort to flapping my hand and growling, “No comment”.

Got home to find she was talking about a bunch of policy wonks working for Shaun Bailey in his attempt to be Mayor of London. A video – yes, somebody took a video! – shows an idiot in a Christmas jumper throwing some shapes with a blonde in a red dress.

Dirty Dancing, it’s not. More like Gordon Brown and Theresa May giving it large. But, for once, I wasn’t there. Not guilty, Your Honour!

*This column was produced using Artificial Insemination. Go on, think about it.

20th June 2023

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