In the deepest recesses of his study, Boris Johnson blinks gloopily at a computer screen. All around him, the flotsam of his triumphs pile high: a herogram from Max Hastings, a quart-size Get Brexit Done memorial champagne mug, a vial of Pfizer, a thumbs-up selfie with Zelensky.
Do not mock him, gentle reader. For the achievements they commemorate are real. Back on the screen, his bank statement flashes up. He moans like a mourning dove. Beside him, a mobile fizzes and pings.
How, he wonders, has it come to this? From the primeval soup of his imagination, quotes bubble to the surface. They flee from me that sometime did me seek. “Ring me: Pannick,” flashes the phone. Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms, hath vanquished him. Despised. Rejected. Cast out. These fragments I have shored against my ruin.
A sigh forces itself from his innermost being. On the screen, figures tumble down towards the red. Annual income £5,354,853: result, happiness. Annual expenditure: £5,354,854: result…Aaarrrggh. Mmmppph. Uuurrrgh. For a moment, his shoulders slump.
He jerks himself upwards. Time to rock n’ roll. O for a muse of fire! One ham-like hand seizes a pen. The other, paper. “Pannick, urgent.” With a flourish, the pen divides the paper with a Churchillian line down the middle.
Option One: retreat. Go under. Stand down from Uxbridge, get out to America. Write the Shakespeare book. Set up in Ukraine. Settle down with Carrie. He grunts, and his weight shifts from one buttock to another. Perch on a pillar, like Simeon Stylites. Sulk in a barrel, like the Rector of Stiffkey. Fly warplanes. Host Top Gear. Make zillions.
But that’s not his way. Never has been. Never will be. Not least because it would mean surrender to…to – his shoulders heave, his eyes narrow – to the Prime Min – Minist – Min (he struggles with the word) – to him…to that human spreadsheet…that interpolating Wykehamist…that bean-counting midget…that Treasury prissbag…to that man. He shuts his eyes.
And opens them. Option Two: advance. Deploy Cruddas. Unleash Campbell-Bannerman. Fire up the Quattro! Work the phone banks, letters to Brady. Get on the line to Chopper, big interview in the Telegraph. Forth Eorlingas! Only one man can save your seat! No confidence vote and out goes the Yorkshire Pretender. Stand, get through to the members’ stage, win.
But that has never been his way, either. Not quite. For an queer streak of caution runs through him. Furthermore – and here is his unfathomableness – part of him has a melancholy spot for the man who helped to bring about his downfall: an understanding; even, affection. Almost.
So in the end, goes where he was always going – somewhere down the middle. The paper is scrunched to a ball and hurled to the floor. Don’t oppose. Undermine. Don’t go full frontal. Instead, work round the side. Seize attention. Upstage. Make noises off. Wrong-foot. Get in the photo. The odd Twitter video here, the odd Mail piece there.
Don’t bombard away at your enemy’s walls. Rather, sapper beneath their foundations. Windsor Framework, eh? His mouth works, his eyes scrunch. Windsor soup? Barbara Windsor? Windsor knot? That’s more like it. Or rather it isn’t, he tells himself irritably. Not knot, nit.
So they want him out. Vote on the Protocol, same day, to flush him out. Harman. A snort of contempt. Carter. Costa. A blank stare. Walker. He groans, and clutches his head in his hands. Bernard. An expostulation works its way up from just above his underpants. Let them try. He will tough it out. Back of the scrum. Hunker down. Eton Wall Game. Push, bully and shove!
By-election? He will fight and win. Or chuck it in and go elsewhere. Either way, someone, somewhere will have him – undefeated in London, referendum winner, unbeaten at the polls, former Prime Minister, majority of 80. The Great Triumphator. So Number Ten thinks it can keep him off the list? Ha! He snorts like a water buffalo.
Somewhere, somehow, he will find a safe seat to snuggle into. Local celebrity. Talking point. Star quality. Touch of magic from the hem of the garment. Nothing that can’t be turned to advantage. Honours list. Knighthood for Stanley. Richard Sharp. Seize the limelight, hog the spotlight.
So the Usurper squeaks back with a John Major-thin majority. He will haunt him like a revengers tragedy. Or goes down to defeat and is replaced by Kemi Badenoch. How long would she last before blowing herself up? Three months? Six? A year? Then the call will come.
Starmer the Human Bollard? Swept aside! The Pretender? Forgotten! Car up the mall, audience with Charles, Churchill in 1940. Is it not passing brave to be a King and ride in triumph through Persepolis? Nads for Chancellor. Lebedev for King Charles Street. Fabricant for Pope! Walking with destiny. Winking at destiny. Boris is back!
Outside, the skies darken as the day draws to an end. Within, the figures in the debit column plunge through the floor. The shadows lengthen. But a strange sight is framed against the dying light – a triumphant figure, hair akimbo, fists pumped, punching the air like a football manager.
I did it my way! I’m knocked down, I get up again! I am what I am! He has immortal longings on him. Which of us does not? And remember: he has bounced back before. Thumbed his nose at the conventions. Defied the gods. Stolen the Promethean fire. Come closer to death than most of us now remember.