When it was announced that Boris Johnson was to publish an honest account of his time in Downing Street, we all thought: how honest would it be? Because for three magical years, Britain’s greatest prime minister showed us exactly what extreme honesty in politics looked like. Would his innate modesty allow him to reveal the full extent of his selfless service, his valour, his tireless dedication behind the scenes to Build Boris’s Brexit Britain Back Better?
No. He has characteristically omitted from his book all the Cobra meetings he attended in secret, for reasons of national security. He makes no mention of the Christmas he spent personally packing thousands of AstraZeneca vaccine shots. He excludes altogether the late monarch’s adulation of him, how she would dress as a pearly queen for his visits, how they would sing old cockney songs into the small hours.
It’s time to put the record straight, with an even more honest appraisal of those Big Dog Days. In a companion, so-called “parody” volume to his own brilliant memoir, I present his life as a series of useful life lessons: If It Ain’t Fixed, Break It; A Lie Isn’t A Lie If It’s A Joke, etc.
But I have also corrected the public perception of events which culminated in his being forced out by what he courageously called a “media-driven hoo-hah”. The Guardian has selected some uncontroversial extracts from that ultra-honest timeline, below …
July 2019
Discredited Narrative: The prime minister, Theresa May, resigns after struggling to get parliamentary support for the Brexit deal she agreed with the EU. Boris Johnson says he wants to replace her. The US president, Donald Trump, endorses him. There is then a two-way contest between Johnson and Jeremy Hunt. Johnson is appointed prime minister and promises that Britain will leave the EU on 31 October, with or without a deal.
Unhinged Truth: I, Boris Johnson, Theresa May’s most loyal supporter, plead with her to stay on and offer to “strike with force any blackguard fomenting treason”. It was to no avail. “Vulgus irata praevaluit …” I write in my diary, my forehead pedimented with regret, one eyebrow raised into a Gothic arch of solemn determination. The angry mob has prevailed. “This minority government must NOT be allowed to sink. No, it shall rise again!”
Already the country is keening for me to Get Brexit Sorted. Trump makes a secret visit to address the 1922 Committee by candlelight and says: “This guy, Bosco Jackson, a beautiful singer. And he would make a great, great, great leader. Ass like a buffalo. Make him Brexit King or just shoot yourselves in the fucking balls.” A great cheer goes up and I accept the nomination.
December 2019
Discredited Narrative: The decision to hold a snap general election brings a decisive victory for Johnson: an 80-seat Conservative majority. Now the prime minister is able to force through a hard Brexit.
Unhinged Truth: I knew instinctively what the British people wanted to see. They wanted to see a wall of polystyrene bricks with GRIDLOCK emblazoned across it, then me lurching through it on a digger with “Get Bloody Brexit Sorted” stuck on the scoopy bit at the front.
Couldn’t have felt more like Achilles in a hard hat unless I’d tied Corbyn’s corpse behind me and done a victory lap. As for Europe … Alas, soon a roaring sea and many metaphorical mountains will lie between us. I regret it has come to this. I am at heart a Europhile. I bloody love scoffing croissants, knocking back le beaujolais nouveau and fondling busty European women. But there’s definitely more to be gained by leaving Europe. All sorts of treats are flooding in – free holidays and whatnot (some, ironically, in Europe). A nice rebalancing there. Told Carrie to order that gold wallpaper she fancies – don’t worry about who’ll pay for it.
March 2020
Discredited Narrative: The coronavirus pandemic hits the UK with full force, causing widespread panic. Johnson is criticised for being unprepared and slow to act. He announces a nationwide lockdown, but later than most other countries. Public health messaging and an ineffective test and trace system are criticised. Sunak announces a £30bn fund to protect the economy, £330bn in business loan guarantees and a furlough scheme that would eventually cost £70bn. Johnson is seen shaking hands with people, including hospital patients, on the same day the Scientific Advisory Group for Emergencies (Sage) advises the public to minimise physical contact. Days later he tests positive for the virus.
Unhinged Truth: With great reluctance, and against the official advice of government experts whose identity I must protect, I order a lockdown. There are already sniping, unpatriotic noises off about how the political class always looks out for themselves and their chums. I mean, come on. We’re chucking around hundreds of billions of pounds, there’s enough there for everyone to grab a fistful. I couldn’t bear though to be thought a coward, hiding away at No 10, miles away from the front line like a quivering conchie. No, I determine that I should contract this blasted virus and – praesis ut prosis – show leadership through service by then recovering from it. Abracadabra!
Hey presto! Pro bono publico! I go around shaking hands with as many germy-looking proles as I can, even sneaking into a hospital’s isolation ward and deliberately hugging the patients there, who are extremely shocked and delighted to see me!
July–September 2020
Holiday.
December 2021
Discredited Narrative: Revelations start to emerge about several illegal parties held in Downing Street. The growing scandal is called “Partygate”. A leaked video shows advisers apparently joking about a recent party at No 10. A photograph is published by the Daily Mirror of Johnson at a quiz night. The Guardian publishes a photo of Johnson, his wife and up to 17 staff members in the Downing Street garden enjoying cheese and wine, at a time when large social gatherings were prohibited.
Unhinged Truth: Yeah, Merry Fucking Christmas. Has anyone anywhere ever been lumbered with such useless subordinates? I am as SHOCKED as anyone to hear that I may inadvertently have attended social gatherings at No 10. How shocked? Well, I’ve adjusted my “shocked face” in the mirror this morning, turned it right up to 11, and let me tell you, it looks bloody scary. I completely, COMPLETELY understand the feelings of the relatives of those who died frightened and alone in hospital while allegedly some arsehole downstairs here was careening around to Whitney Houston. It breaks my heart.
July 2022
Discredited Narrative: Johnson tells the BBC he had been informed of a misconduct complaint against Chris Pincher before appointing him deputy chief whip, admitting his decision was a “bad mistake”. Dominic Cummings alleges Johnson joked that he was “Pincher by name, pincher by nature”. Sunak and Sajid Javid resign. Over the next 24 hours, more than 60 government officials also resign. The levelling up secretary, Michael Gove, refuses to affirm his support. Johnson sacks him, then resigns as prime minister.
Unhinged Truth: Mimsy Gove, that four-eyed fucking arsehole. Face like a MUDSKIPPER, stupid flapping girly hands, never trusted him. Well good luck now mate, enjoy your status as boring footnote in British political history.
Hey-ho, all things must pass, all flesh is grass, quand c’est l’heure, c’est l’heure … Once in every few generations, a beloved public figure must do the honourable thing for Queen and country and graciously retreat, for the good of all. Like Jesus, I must die for the sins of all mankind, however unfair and frankly fucking shitty that is. But fear not, for like Jesus, I shall return. Not just for a couple of days to dazzle everyone and then disappear upstairs, but for a long time. I’ll just say this: many of those who brought about my downfall are clearly envious; although I am pushing 60, I am younger, better looking and more sexually active than any of them. I leave with my dignity and reputation INTACT. Might write a book.