What the Mayor of London looks like, in case you don’t know.
So I’m just coming out of Arthur’s Cafe (father, son and grandson, est. 1935) on Kingsland Road in north London. I’ve had a nice lamb’s liver and bacon lunch and all is well. Jesus, I feel good. Then I see, coming out of the Oxfam shop across the street, a straw-headed individual whom I hate. He’s in a good dark suit stretched and pulled sideways and most other ways, a cycle helmet more on one side of the straw head than the other, and he’s got a plastic carrier bag in his hand. This is the north end of Kingsland Road, up towards Islington, so I’m not all that surprised. The ‘jesus I feel good’ goes. I cross the street. By now he’s unlocking a bicycle from the lamppost.
I stop beside him. I feel there should be security guards hovering about somewhere, but there’s nobody approaching with their hand inside their coat. This is my chance. He looks up from his unlocking. I say, ‘Gussie Fink-Nottle, Al, BoJo, Boris, Brand Boris, the Beano Boris of Have I Got News For You, or to put that another way, Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, dual national of the US and Britain, who wants us out of the EU as if it’s any of your business, hold it right there.’
Boris says, ‘Huump fullluff, by jove. Mmunnaat eegghh mmoonn.’
‘That purposely ruffled hair while acting the likeable, semi-shambolic buffoon won’t work with me,’ I say. ‘You’re not going to deflect me with self-deprecation and giving me something to laugh at.’
At that moment the unlocked bicycle falls to the ground and Boris topples over it, the loose helmet slides over his face and he gets to his feet while looking at me through the slats in the top.
‘Buumpf coorps muffet,’ he says. ‘Lounng massin corby.’
‘Jester, toff, yes,’ I say. ‘Also a racist and bigot, a self-absorbed sociopath, a serial liar, a nasty right-wing elitist with odious views and criminal friends…’
‘Now, here, I say, nuuffg woonbm nufft,’ he says.
‘… a ruthless, ambitious, manipulative, scheming backstabber, a manic self-promoter engaged in a ceaseless war for supremacy, a man of aspirations without concrete achievements or plans (like your similarly coiffured but even wealthier counterpart the Donald Trump)…’
I’m still talking when he opens the plastic carrier bag from the Oxfam shop and pulls out the riding crop he has just bought and thrashes me viciously and repeatedly across the face with it, while yelling, ‘Take that you Irish paddy scum go back to your hovel in the mud and your life with the pigs and eat poisoned potatoes all day and everyday if you like you non-British matris futuor get out of here.’ Slash slash. ‘Te futueo et caballum tuum,’ he yells. Maybe the rest had been Latin too. I’ve no idea.
No, he didn’t do that. Not at all. Because that would be to show what the cuddly, harmless, buffoon Boris is really like. A matris futuor.