So, having decided to roll out of the Palace of Westminster “for now”, Boris Johnson begins the exotic life of an ex-MP. Meanwhile, the Muse of History can sharpen her pencils and finally decide whether he was Britain’s greatest hero or the punchline to some appalling cosmic joke.
I’m ready to admit I don’t especially care for our former PM. I’ve only had one dealing with him which was rather like being harangued by a turbo posh Love Island contestant. It was all hair, little substance and the content knowingly scripted for totes emosh effect. He seemed to me to have the moral depth of an airline salad. In a perfect world, I’d have loved grilling him till he squealed on the GMB sofa (or at least given him a substantial gavelling on Judge Rinder) but I suppose that’s probably less likely now.
Nevertheless, love him or loathe him, there’s one thing we can all agree is rather amazing: he’s beginning a whole new phase of life at a mere 58.
I’ve recently entered early middle age myself and I’ve already discovered it’s unquestionably fabulous. You can still do pretty much everything you could in your thirties, it’s just there’s slightly less bending and a bit more creaking. The only real difference is that you’ve acquired decades of experience and — most importantly — total indifference to what others think. And that’s the key to true happiness. In fact, given the wisdom I’ve accumulated, I’ve got a few tips for Boris in his next chapter.
First, hit the gym. I know we’ve all seen him jogging about in his old PE kit but he should take it seriously. As someone who used to go to Barry’s Boot Camp with George Osborne, I can testify that sweating it out several times a week makes an enormous difference to general wellbeing. Though don’t take it too far — I’m not ready for Johnsonian six-packs and thirst traps.
Second, a haircut — that preposterous mop has to go. It was all very well for being Prime Minister, but it’s time to get serious now. I advise a full buzzcut at the very least, and shave it off everywhere else (grey hairs in novel locations are just too demoralising). Third, hang out with the family. Now’s the time he can work out how many kids he’s got.
Fourth, make some proper money. I know he’s been footling about with after-dinner speeches and Shakespeare books, but it’s time to make enough for private jets and mid-sized yachts. He should be launching his own cryptocurrency and if not, he could start selling porcelain statues of himself on Etsy, tasteful ones where he’s proroguing Parliament or hiding in a fridge.
Fifth, once he’s financially secure, fit and shorn, he can have a crack at some new professions. He could try the “inverted Ronald Reagan” and pivot from politics into full-time acting. Johnson’s declaration that he was leaving Parliament “at least for now” had strong Bond villain energy I’d like to see him develop on screen. He’d have my full support, just so long as he never tries politics again.
In other news...
It was my birthday a couple of weeks ago but fortunately I keep on celebrating for months (and I’ll accept birthday cake until Christmas).
There’s one event that I can barely wait for: stuffing myself at Mere, Monica Galetti’s incredible restaurant in Fitzrovia. In a great restaurant you lick your plate at the end of the meal — at Monica’s joint, you ask to lick other people’s.
When I was recently wandering around Charlotte Street the restaurant scene seemed to be flourishing again — every place was crammed with joyful diners sipping rosé and badmouthing their friends. Despite the current economic situation appearing fairly calamitous (with subtle hints of apocalypse), it was a positive sign, and any good news is welcome for the service sector.
All we need now is for the Government to restore tax-free shopping for foreign tourists. Fingers crossed it means things might soon be looking up elsewhere.
