Would Boris Johnson rather be attacked by a dozen duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck?

The London Mayor's Twitter Q&A showed the perils of engaging with voters on digital platforms without really understanding them.

"Ask Boris is the latest in our series of Talk London events, your chance to talk to the Mayor about what matters most to you," suggested one of Boris's marketing whiz kids at City Hall. "Join us on Twitter to talk about what makes London the best big city in the world."
 
And so they did. In their thousands, tweeters took to the network to ask Johnson such vital questions as "Does it annoy you that Custard Creams from Tesco are normally all broken?" and: "Which would you prefer? To be attacked by a dozen duck sized horses or attacked by one horse sized duck?"
 
The Mayor might have expected abuse, but instead he faced a series of increasingly surreal questions: "Time flies like an arrow, whereas fruit flies like a banana - discuss/comment?" asked one concerned follower. "Did Bono finally find what he was looking for?" asked another.
 
The session quickly got out of hand. "Boris Johnson is doing a Twitter Q&A under #askboris and naturally some people aren't taking it seriously. Have a look," suggested one user. And before Boris could properly get to grips with the important topic of  "how many chucks can a woodchuck chuck" or decide between Curly Wurly bars and fudge fingers, #askBoris was one of the top trending topics in the world.
 
Whilst previous sessions had lasted a whole hour, the Mayor made a swift exit at half time citing previously unmentioned "diary commitments". Meanwhile most of the genuine and difficult questions posed by Londoners remained unanswered. Many users were left feeling that it was them, rather than the mayor, who had been taken for a ride.
 
"So @mayoroflondon chooses to answer questions about duck sized horses, but not about his 9 point plan for London," complained one follower. "So the #askboris session seemed to RT a whole bunch of questions and provide no answers...how very like a politician" complained another.
 
Boris later declared the session a resounding success with City Hall compiling an official mayoral report claiming that 553,076 users had been reached by the Twitter trend.
 
Whether any of those 500,000 were even remotely better informed about London issues is another matter, but in terms of promoting the Boris brand #askboris undoubtedly served its purpose.
 
Other politicians' Twitter question and answer sessions have not been quite as benign. Last year Ed Miliband was the target of particularly barbed questions on the site.
 
"If you give a speech, but nobody cares, do you make a sound?' asked one typically dismissive user on the site. "Do you feel bad about stabbing your brother in the back? asked many others.
 
What both examples show however is that so many politicians have completely failed to understand how social media works. For most users, conversations on Twitter and Facebook do not happen by prior appointment, but are part of their everyday lives.

Of course there are some politicians who understand this, and who actually use Twitter as a major part of their daily work.
 
But by setting up occasional brief Q+A sessions, Johnson and Miliband are almost asking for people to exploit and ridicule them. Not only are they sticking their heads in the public stocks, they are actually handing out sponges and cream pies for people to throw at them as well.

Of course being the Mayor of London or the leader of the opposition might not leave much time to spend answering endless questions on Twitter. 

But if they haven't got the time to properly to get to grips with social media then perhaps they shouldn't bother trying at all.

Boris Johnson is pretty much the definition of "in touch with the electorate". Photo: Getty Images

Adam Bienkov is a blogger and journalist covering London politics and the Mayoralty. He blogs mostly at AdamBienkov.com

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As the strangers approach the bed, I wonder if this could be a moment of great gentleness

I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do.

It’s 1.13am on an autumn morning some time towards the end of the 20th century and I’m awake in a vast hotel bed in a small town in the east of England. The mysterious east, with its horizons that seem to stretch further than they should be allowed to stretch by law. I can’t sleep. My asthma is bad and I’m wheezing. The clock I bought for £3 many years earlier ticks my life away with its long, slow music. The street light outside makes the room glow and shimmer.

I can hear footsteps coming down the corridor – some returning drunks, I guess, wrecked on the reef of a night on the town. I gaze at the ceiling, waiting for the footsteps to pass.

They don’t pass. They stop outside my door. I can hear whispering and suppressed laughter. My clock ticks. I hear a key card being presented, then withdrawn. The door opens slowly, creaking like a door on a Radio 4 play might. The whispering susurrates like leaves on a tree.

It’s an odd intrusion, this, as though somebody is clambering into your shirt, taking their time. A hotel room is your space, your personal kingdom. I’ve thrown my socks on the floor and my toothbrush is almost bald in the bathroom even though there’s a new one in my bag because I thought I would be alone in my intimacy.

Two figures enter. A man and a woman make their way towards the bed. In the half-dark, I can recognise the man as the one who checked me in earlier. He says, “It’s all right, there’s nobody in here,” and the woman laughs like he has just told her a joke.

This is a moment. I feel like I’m in a film. It’s not like being burgled because this isn’t my house and I’m sure they don’t mean me any harm. In fact, they mean each other the opposite.

Surely they can hear my clock dripping seconds? Surely they can hear me wheezing?

They approach, closer and closer, towards the bed. The room isn’t huge but it seems to be taking them ages to cross it. I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do. I should speak. I should say with authority, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” But I don’t.

I could just lie here, as still as a book, and let them get in. It could be a moment of great gentleness, a moment between strangers. I would be like a chubby, wheezing Yorkshire pillow between them. I could be a metaphor for something timeless and unspoken.

They get closer. The woman reaches her hand across the bed and she touches the man’s hand in a gesture of tenderness so fragile that it almost makes me sob.

I sit up and shout, “Bugger off!” and they turn and run, almost knocking my clock from the bedside table. The door crashes shut shakily and the room seems to reverberate.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge