A Bruising Encounter With Beastly Boris

Question Time on Radio Four today was full of the usual robotic and characterless politicians spouting the usual PC nonsense about how marvellous immigration and the National Health service is. At least today there was an interesting question, `do the panel agree that Boris Johnston is a nasty piece of work?’ Unsurprisingly the opinions were bland and unenlightening.

My own opinion, based on meeting him at a fabled Spectator lunch many moons ago when the Spectator was a hotbed of sexual intrigue and adultery, sheds some light on his character.

I’d expected to really like him and was looking forward to witnessing some flirty, non PC banter but oh… much to my surprise he was very short (not that I am remotely shortist you understand – I am only five feet five and Boyfriend on a Short Fuse only five foot eight and shrinking), but I’d expected Boris to be about six foot as he always looks so beefy on the telly.

Imagine my shock when I am introduced to a stocky, but none the less titchy chap barely any taller than me (OK, I’m wearing one inch heels). I’ve since realised that he looks huge on telly because he usually stands next to tiny people. He towers over his wife who must be about four foot. But I suppose it is quite normal for celebrities to be small in real life.

The height thing I could forgive (almost) but much worse, he had the coldest, most calculating and piercing blue eyes I have ever seen. I once lunched with Barbara Cartland (I was dating her grandson) and she similarly had the same kind of piercing blue eyes. She was tough but unlike Boris, she wasn’t mean.  

My fellow invitees were a witty and glittering throng, including glamorous lady war correspondent Janine de Giovanni, gorgeously attired in Chanel and high heels, James Delingpole and Rod Liddle who had invited me, and on whom I had a humungus crush.  

During the pre-lunch drinks I was introduced to Boris. As a staunch Green Party member, I suggested that the Tories should take up some of the environmental policies that the Labour Party had given up on (bear in mind this was many years ago, when there were still votes in the environment and way before the Cameron husky era). 

 

`YES!  Roared Boris, flushing with enthusiasm. `LET’S PUT THE CONSERVE BACK INTO THE CONSERVATIVE PARTY. MARVELLOUS IDEA’, he boomed.  

 

But then, quite suddenly my pearl necklace broke, and (thankfully fake) pearls splattered all over the wooden floor. `OH DEAR OH DEAR!’ he blustered, looking fearfully embarrassed like all my clothes had suddenly fallen off or something, before scuttling off towards the moth-eaten Spectator dining room.

 

Things deteriorated further over lunch. Boris kept booming on, like the most popular boy in school everyone was eagerly currying his favour, and were madly, exhaustingly, singing for their supper. All the men were sweating noticeably too. They were probably just as nervous as I was.  

As we sat down I turned to a tall, bland looking man on my left and enquired politely, `what do you do?’ (all my powers of conversation had quite fled).  

`I’m the editor of The Times’, he replied stonily. 

Feeling a little crushed, (the editor of The Times!) I turned to the gimlet-eyed man on my right. I discovered that he was Conrad Black’s hatchet man, (you see, it was a very long time ago) apparently very well known, but I had never heard of him either. 

Then everyone suddenly began talking about music, in a noisy, one upmanship kind of way. The music critic of The Guardian began explaining very loudly how Duran Duran, Abba and other previously uncool 80’s bands were now the height of cool.  

 

I heard my voice pipe up uselessly, `yes, I think Supertramp are fantastic, I’m sure they’re due for a revival any minute’.  

There was a terrible silence. It appeared that Supertramp are simply not, and will never be, cool.  It was like admitting to being a Daily Express reader. Possibly worse.  

I shrunk back into my uncomfortable chair and pushed around a great slab of raw meat that had just been placed in front of me. Fortunately the champagne was running like water so at least I could drown my sorrows.   

And then very oddly, did I imagine it? I felt a foot playing around with my shins. It was most disconcerting. The men on either side of me were showing no interest in me at all, and Rod Liddle and Boris Johnson had very short legs that could not have reached that far. Was it a cat, or a ferret?   

By now I hadn’t spoken for twenty minutes and I was desperate to return to the conversation whizzing around my head.  

But it was almost impossible to break in, it was probably a bit like the sixth form at a boy’s public school. Lots of very confident, clever, witty but rather unkind men, shouting and desperate to hold centre stage. Even the glamorous lady war correspondent had been mute for an hour, lapsing into a ladylike silence as the boys shouted at each other.   

Where was the famous Spectator flirting and louchness? 

Bolstering myself up with more champagne, I seized a lull in the conversation and jumped right in. I’d remembered reading that Boris had German blood. 

`Boris are you half German?’ I enquired conversationally.  

`NO!  I’m a quarter Turkish!’ he boomed, adding patronizingly, YOU’RE THINKING OF BORIS BECKER! 

I shrunk back into my uncomfortable wooden seat as his toadies sniggered unkindly at my gaffe.  

Now, Boris Becker is a six foot two inch, ripplingly muscled Teutonic SEX GOD. There was no way even I, with my terrible eyesight, could confuse him with the short, portly magazine editor across the table shovelling steak into his mouth.   

Half an hour later they were still discussing Boris Becker and broom cupboards when the coffee arrived and I was able to slip out unnoticed. I never did find out who was touching up my leg.  

So it’s fair to say, the charms of Boris Johnston have completely eluded me, so much so, that in the mayoral election I actually voted for Ken Livingstone (and I’m pretty right-wing, so that probably just about sums it up).


This is an excerpt from my new best-selling book, Letting Go of the Glitz, one woman's struggle to live the simple life in Chelsea, just out in paperback and available from Amazon and about 3 bookshops.

(I know it is fashionable to rail against Amazon for not volunteering to pay more tax than they are legally entitled to do, but they are the small time author's friend. You have no idea how horrible bookshops are to authors, so good for Amazon I say - at least they stock everyone, hurrah). And let's be fair, when you get your tax bill do you say, hmm, I think I should pay more tax than I have been asked for? No? Me neither.