Opinion
Following his resignation as MP, I am struck by a new consensus that has lasted for decades: that the former prime minister is an unlikable man with no friends or allies
The interesting thing about Boris Johnson’s exit from Parliament is not his testimony, but a thousand words from a psychedelic, upside-down world where everyone else is lying and he alone is telling the truth. Maybe this strikes me again: It could be important for the historical record. For now, though, I’m amazed at the new consensus that Johnson is an unsympathetic man with no friends or allies, whose only recognizable mark in the universe is a trail of the Betrayed and Disillusioned. This is apparently an obvious thing by now, totally common knowledge among the Boris watchers who five seconds ago were telling us he was the most brilliant man in British politics.
A bit of consistency would be nice, or at least an acknowledgment that they are saying something different now than before. But whatever, because it’s also a relief. It’s quite confusing when one agrees on the lovability of a man who can be seen from afar and up close, and who is unlovable at every approach in between.
I first met Johnson at a Spectator luncheon in 1999, shortly after he became editor. There were dining rooms in magazines then, maybe they still are today; I haven’t been invited to anything like this since I was at a New Statesman luncheon and thought Chatham House Rules meant you could smoke while other people were still eating. I deduced this logically from the fact that as soon as Geoffrey Robinson said it, everyone started smoking.
Anyway, I sat next to Johnson and he said, “Why are you here?” There was an unspoken second half of that sentence that didn’t say, “We’re on the right and you’re on the left.” I was a kid then, and I was writing for the Evening Standard, and no one knew which wing I was in. It was, “You don’t sound posh and you’re not pretty, so… why are you here?” I said, “Tell me – you invited me,” which ended the exchange, but it became an existential question. Why was I there? It was a room full of toadies, all of whose attention was focused on a man who could inspire hilarity when, I was more certain than ever, he wasn’t funny at all. Maybe it was time to ask yourself, “Do I want to be with snooty, trivial people who I don’t care about, even if there’s wine?” before saying “yes” to invitations.
Almost a decade later, in 2008, Johnson unveiled its new Routemaster bus in Flitwick, Bedfordshire. He had just won his mayoral victory a few weeks earlier and if I hadn’t met him before I would have said that he has an ego overkill; Instead, I knew this was his default state. “I remember you,” he said. “You’re the one who wrote the horrible thing about me.” And it was true: in order to scare off the London voters, I had written something horrible about him, based solely on things he had written himself, which were horrible. I didn’t want to argue with the guy; I wanted to go by bus. So I said, “This is journalism,” and that seemed to satisfy him.
The day stuck in my mind because I was on the same train back to London as Johnson and he was mobbed by enthusiastic teenagers. I suppose it was a proof of concept: it has to have that magical quality, whatever you want to call it, charisma, magnetic friendliness. Sure, Mid Bedfordshire was a constituency that reliably voted for Nadine Dorries, so it was the Tories, that’s all there is; Shouldn’t all teenagers hate conservative politicians? How had Johnson entered her consciousness as a celebrity and not as a suit? What struck me in watching the interaction was Johnson’s disgust palpable beneath the pantomime bonhomie. He really likes voices; I’m not sure how much he likes voters.
Anyway, in the end we all agree: not a funny, likeable person – on the contrary. It won’t necessarily mitigate the damage of his next act, but it is something.
• Zoe Williams is a columnist for The Guardian
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