SECRET DIARY OF WILF JOHNSON
No 10’s a dump, Daddy’s banned from the sofa...
ALL hail Wilfred Lawrie Nicholas Johnson — the diminutive overlord of charm, and bijou acme of adorability. Boris Johnson’s son Wilf, born on April 29, 2020, wowed the G7 wives last week. Indeed, the tot proved such a charm that there have been cries of ‘foul!’ — mostly from those not fortunate enough to have a curly-headed moppet in a darling pair of Christopher Robin shorts in their team. But what is going on in the dear head of Johnson minor? Here, the Mail presents the Secret Diary Of Wilf Johnson Aged 13½ Months, as told to ALISON BOSHOFF.
BLANKET COVERAGE FOR MY DEBUT
‘WHEN we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools,’ according to Shakespeare.
Dad’s for ever talking like this. How am I supposed to learn English? Mummy says Daddy is very clever and was going to write a book about this Shakespeare
chap — one without pictures or anything — but got too busy.
Apparently the book will be full of plotting, jealousy and political corruption.
Dad’s peculiar friend Dom Cummings has been giving him a few pointers.
I’VE CALLED YOU HERE TO TALK ABOUT ME
AH, MY first Zoom. A classic early years milestone for the pandemic generation. Mum is covering my ears which is making it very hard to hear what is being said.
We are speaking from the study in No 10 Downing Street. But even from this angle, I can see the place is a right dump and in need of some redecoration, pronto, just like next door. But Mum and Dad say they are going to do up No11.
I was born two weeks after Papa came home after he got very, very poorly with Covid and one of my middle names is Nicholas, after the doctor who looked after him. I got off lightly there: apparently one of my sisters was saddled with ‘Lettice’ and another ‘Peaches’. I mean what is this, a greengrocers?
The question of siblings is one which it’s better not to raise as it sets both of them off. I definitely have two half-brothers and three half-sisters — and maybe another one — but Daddy doesn’t like it when asked to do the sums.
GOT DAD’S ART BUG – HE PAINTS BUSES
I’M STARTING to learn what a roller-coaster politics is, as Christmas was cancelled after all. Clever Daddy managed to make it look like that twit Matt Hancock’s fault. People are so disappointed though that I’ve had to be wheeled out on December 27 to create a bit of festive spirit.
I’m now able to crawl and have a couple of front teeth to offer. But these milestones fall short on the Conspicuous Good Deeds front and so I have been set to work creating a Christmas card for an 89-year-old in a care home.
TIME TO SACK THE STYLIST
HEAVY is the head that wears the crown, and the head that wears the Wales beanie, too. Dad’s been in charge of dressing me today and this is the best he can come up with.
Odd socks, grubby leggings and a jacket that makes me look like that creepy creature in Don’t Look Now (or Dominic Cummings). I think our stylist must be on Uncle Rishi’s furlough scheme.
But at least I don’t look as daft as Daddy in that hat.
THIS IS A BLOOMING LIBERTY
I AM my usual adorable self for this photocall — and I’m not sure who is to blame — I have been comprehensively upstaged by my parents who have got married today (May 29) — without telling anyone.
Just as well that you can’t see my face because I am fuming.
Mummy and Daddy were officially very sneaky as they sent out save-the-date cards a week ago for a celebration in July 2022, which worked a treat.
HOLIDAYS IN LOCH-DOWN
OFF on my holi-bobs and I’ve got to say I’m not terribly impressed. The decor in this Scottish cottage is even worse than the Downing Street dreck and there’s a tent in the garden which is nobody’s idea of fun in August — what with the midges and gales.
I’ve also been put in knitwear which looks like it was hand-spun from recycled hippie sandals by ‘Don’t call me Sir’ Keir Starmer.
We are making the best of the circumstances but . . . Scotland. Really?
Mummy keeps harking on about somewhere called ‘Mustique’ which she says was much nicer — and cheaper. Poor Dilyn was so miserable I think he wanted to be back at the dog pound.
NAPPY DAY OUT ON THE BEACH
NO SULKING for me as I am putting my best tootsies forward for the G7 summit. None of the others has brought their children, which leaves the field (and beach) open for my star turn.
The ones I really have to target are Dr Jill Biden and her grandad Joe. Dr Jill — who seems to be the President of America — thinks I’m ‘just the cutest little thing ever’ and I think she wants to take me to live in Pennsylvania Avenue for good. I’m thinking this might have some merits.
I bet there’s no John Lewis tat there.
A WORD IN YOUR EAR, MUMMY
AH, THAT’S more like it! A ‘local outbreak’ of good taste means I am being burped on a Lulu Lytle sofa upholstered in the ‘joyful and uplifting’ Damascus stripe. I’ve even managed to add a few milk-coloured stripes of my own. It won’t be long until I can complete the job and shove a fish finger or two down the back of it.
The curtains are tendril vine in emerald and stone by Soane Britain and the cost is ‘squillions’ according to my groaning papa.
Unlike me and Mummy, Daddy’s not allowed near the sofa, especially when he’s got a glass of red wine in his hand. Apparently, that got a bit messy last time.
Still, everyone’s looking forward to Christmas.
CHARMING THE LADIES (NATURALLY)
AH, THE adoration of the people. Forget the deliberate informality of locally caught seafood prepared in a nearby beach hut. I’ve dressed up in a £55 piped pique shirt and £49 tailored shorts by Rachel Riley for the concluding event of the G7 summit.
This look is in fact based on an outfit which Prince George wore to great acclaim previously, and as you can see, it went down a storm. Could I be so bold as to suggest I might even have had the style edge over HRH here?
Notice that Kim Jung-sook, the wife of the South Korean leader, and Amelie Derbaudrenghien, who is the partner of Charles Michel of the European Council, are also dazzled.
Even I can only weave so much magic when it comes to the ‘jab snatcher’ Ursula von der Leyen, who remains in a gigantic sulk over Brexit. Or maybe she needs changing . . .