DAY I RUMBLED BORIS’ NAUGHTY LITTLE SECRET ...

WITH four minutes to go, Boris Johnson ran in. It was an awards ceremony at the Hilton, Park Lane, a couple of years before he became May Mayor of London. He was due to make a fun funny speech. In four minutes.

Th There I was, sitting with a table-load of Lon London bankers at an event named som something like the International Sec Securitisation Awards (I was going to han hand out the prizes), when, WHOOSH, a rus rush of wind from an open door, a golden mo mop, a heave of body on to the chair next to mine, and the breathless question: ‘Jer ‘Jeremy, where exactly am I?’ ‘T ‘The Securitisation Awards,’ I tell him. ‘R ‘Right-ho,’ he said. ‘Who is speaking?’ ‘Y ‘You are, Boris.’ ‘G ‘Good God!’ he cried. ‘When?’ ‘U ‘Um, pretty much now.’ ‘O‘ OK, first up, what is sec securitisation?’

Ne Nervous laughter. A man fro from one of the big Far East ban banks tries to explain. Boris is s staring at him. He asks for a piece of paper.

So Someone produces the rev reverse side of the menu. He put puts it on his thigh, beneath the tablecloth.

‘A ‘Anyone got a pen?’ he says. ‘Qu ‘Quick!’ The future Foreign Secretary beg begins to write what looks like a plan for the speech. It is now past 9.30. This is goi going to be a catastrophe.

Lo Looking at the piece of paper, I could ma make out a handful of words amid the scr scrawl. The first was, in capitals: SHEEP. Bel Below it, another: SHARK.

I heard the announcement. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Boris Johnson to the stage.’ Applause.

I noticed he had left his notes on the table. Horror! Should I run up with them? No, it would be too obvious.

‘Ladies and gentlemen — errrrrr,’ he began. Boris had the look of a man who had been dragged out of a well by his ankles. His blond hair seemed to spring vertically from his head as he embarked on some opening remarks.

‘Errrrrr . . . welcome to the International . . . errrrrr.’ This was terrible. He had forgotten which event he was at.

Johnson then did a crazy thing. To find out where he was, he very obviously turned around and looked at the large logo at the back of the stage.

‘. . . to the International Securatisation Awards! YES!’ he cried triumphantly.

This brought the house down. There was a huge cheer. Everybody realised this was not going to be a normal speech. Chaos had descended, we were in it, and we were going to enjoy it.

‘SHEEP,’ he began, and started a story about his uncle’s farm, and how outrageous it was that they couldn’t bury animals that had died, as they did in the 1960s, because of EU regulations that an abattoir had to be involved. ‘One died today. A SHEEP.’ The occasional word, not always the obvious one, was shouted at double volume. ‘And my uncle had to RING a fellow at the abattoir. His name was Mick. No, Jim. No, sorry, MARGARET. That was it. MARGARET.’ People were not just roaring with laughter, but listening. ‘Which is why my political hero is the mayor from JAWS.’ Laughter. ‘ Yes. Because he KEPT THE BEACHES OPEN.’ More guffawing. He spoke as if each new thought came as a surprise. ‘Yes. He REPUDIATED, he FORSWORE and he ABROGATED all these silly regulations on health and safety and declared that people should SWIM! SWIM!’ He is brilliant. The whole room is cheering. It no longer matters that Boris has no script, no plan. I realise that I am in the presence of genius. He rounds off his speech with a story that ends in three parts. He tells us the first and second bits. ‘And thirdly, because . . .’ he says. Boris has stopped. There is silence. ‘I am terribly sorry, everyone. I have forgotten the third reason . . .’ It brings the house down. He has spent five minutes telling this story, and forgotten the punchline. I’ve never seen anything like it.

FINALLY he says: ‘Right-ho. Jeremy VINE is here and he will be presenting the (looks behind him again) International Securitisation Awards.’ Cheering, because he’s said the name a second time. Laughter. Applause.

I did something I had never done before — ditched all the funny things I had planned to say in my own speech. I had been completely blown off stage.

Around 18 months after that marvellous night, I arrived at an awards ceremony for a totally different industry. I cannot recall whether it was concrete or chiropractors, but once again I had done my research and brought my script. ‘Is anyone else speaking?’ I asked. ‘Boris Johnson,’ the organiser said. He arrived seven minutes before he was due to speak. ‘Jeremy, what is this . . . ?

Others helped. Did they have a pen? Paper? I watched, fascinated, as Boris wrote ‘SHEEP’ in a barely legible scrawl. Then he was on . . . Mesmerising again. Since then, we have all seen Boris’s progression. MP, then mayor, then cabinet minister. Very nearly Prime Minister.

Watching him, I have often remembered those two speeches. For me, they pose the fundamental question that concerns you when you listen to any politician: Is this guy for real?