BORIS WAS HOPPING AROUND LIKE HE HAD ANTS IN HIS BOXERS
EVEN by Boris Johnson’s standards, the tale was a bizarre one. Our setting was a weekend barbecue some time last summer. There was Boris, poking his bangers, pinny on, perhaps a can of foaming San Miguel dangling from his spare hand.
What followed involved wild barefoot dancing, a smashed cafetiere and a trip to a west London hospital.
The Prime Minister was on the BBC Breakfast sofa yesterday morning and had been asked to recall the last time he’d had to use the NHS. His foot apparently received an ‘agonising’ gash during the incident. Impaled by a French coffee maker!
He couldn’t get a more chattering-class injury if he’d nose-dived over a drum of Waitrose gluten-free taramasalata.
The General Election has now entered what we might call the breakfast-television period. The old ‘getting-to-know-you’ stage.
We all know the drill. Which box- sets are you watching? Who out of you and the wife cleans the lav more often? Ugh. Hate it. For politicos, the chatshow circuit is febrile territory.
Shine and the housewives will love you. Get it wrong and that naff studio sofa will you swallow you whole.
Blair was good. Dear old Charlie Kennedy very good. Cameron? Genius. I remember The One Show lot once asking him what wedding present he had bought for Prince William.
The look of horror on his face as he politely explained he’d have to ask his wife was a bravura showcase of self-effacing charm.
On yesterday’s showing, Boris is
certainly no Cameron. Of course it doesn’t help that the PM’s private life is more chaotic than his morning hair routine. Every time a question began, he hopped around like he had a colony of red ants in his boxers, so fearful was he about being asked about his complicated family set-up.
Nor, like many men who attended same- sex private schools, is he particularly comfortable with women. His interrogator yesterday was Naga Munchetty, who not so long ago found herself in the middle of a storm with the Beeb’s top brass after she appeared to call Donald Trump racist.
At the time, Boris admitted he’d never heard of Naga. I suspect he’ll remember who she is after yesterday’s interview.
Telegenic Naga’s views on Boris are unknown, but on yesterday’s showing my guessing is she’s not a fan. There was mild disgust in her tone each time she addressed him, mock horror on her face whenever he interrupted.
She also had a habit of muttering chippy asides under her breath when he did reply.
Not long after the interview began, Boris complained that Brexit’s delay was not his fault but that of Parliament for blocking it.
‘While you led it,’ she replied tartly. We waded through Brexit, the NHS, the recent floods. Then on to the personal stuff.
‘I gotta couple of questions for you,’ Naga smirked.
‘I want people to get a feel for who you are.’
Uh-oh. Boris’s eyes darted from side to side in panic.
SHE brought up a recent video of the PM making a cup of tea, which showed him – the horror! – pouring the milk over the teabag first. ‘Why does everyone react to that?’ asked Boris, indignation smeared across his chops.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ He was desperately trying to run down the clock. Nice try, PM.
Naga ploughed on regardless. Boris’s girlfriend, Carrie Symonds, was mentioned. ‘ You’re a family man,’ she kept saying darkly.
‘Why are you relatable? How can families relate to you?’ she eventually asked.
Boris: ‘ Err… the best that I can… I’ve had a very…’ he never answered the question, and rightly so. Not just because we all know what Naga was hinting at – Eton, privilege etc – but what kind of egomaniac explains why they are relatable? Nick Clegg would have answered without hesitating, naturally.
Boris bumbled on. He was getting tetchy, the mere mention of his private life bringing him out in hives.
‘Oh, look, I know you just want to ask about my family!’ he suddenly blurted out.
Naga momentarily calmed him before rolling some recent footage of the PM mopping a floor.
‘Have you ever used a mop before?’ she asked.
Boris: ‘ What’s wrong with my mop work?’
Naga: ‘ You’re not squeezing enough for start.’
Then we were back on that ruddy ‘what makes you relatable’ claptrap. Boris stared vacantly. He looked fed up. Self-analysis not really his thing.
‘I don’t know. That’s the most psychologically challenging question I’ve ever been asked,’ he mumbled, a trifle peeved. ‘Well, I’m glad we challenged you,’ Naga laughed, reeking of insincerity before forcing him into an unnecessary handshake. Boris emitted a weary sigh of relief. A right old mess really, but by no means a disaster. Jeremy Corbyn’s due up next, so keep the popcorn handy.