Sketch: Boris gives Dave a light day

The PM looked increasingly relieved as the minutes ticked by, with pledges of support intertwined with Borisisms.

The applause began even before the hair appeared and only intensified as it was followed on stage seconds later by the body that could only be Boris. First out of his seat in welcome was the Prime Minister, whose face clearly displayed how he could not imagine a happier way in which to celebrate his 46th birthday. The ordinaries had been queuing since breakfast to get seats for what promised to be the only bit of fun—apart from welfare-bashing—at this year's Tory party conference, and to get more clues about the leader they have yet to elect in Dave’s place.

Boris confuses Conservatives since he appears to say what they believe, while remaining popular in places where they would dare not go out on their own. So they gathered to see if some of the magic dust would rub off on the rest of them. He also confuses a resurgent Labour Party, unnerved by the change in the Tories' popularity every time the name of Boris is swapped for Dave’s in opinion polls. Finally, he confuses the Tory press for whom he is nowhere nearly nasty enough but still better than the left-wing alternative.

And so he shambled on stage, clutching his speech after an effusive welcome by a 12-year-old called Gavin Barwell, who is astonishingly MP for Croydon Central. Boris had arrived in Brighton last night and, sadly for many, used a speech at an equally packed fringe event to promise total loyalty to his Eton compatriot with a straight face throughout. This had led the many at the conference, for whom Dave has turned out to be a disaster, to hope Boris would turn today into a barely coded rallying cry for an internal election hopefully not far off.

The Prime Minister had been forced out of his birthday bed before dawn to try to head Boris off at the pass by trolling around TV and radio studios reminding the nation he was in charge. Gritted teeth had clearly been flossed as he expressed delight at the appearance of “someone with rock star status” in the Tory Party. He appeared perfectly composed as he declared himself someone with the opposite of tall poppy syndrome. And this composure appeared to have been stapled to his face as he joined the standing ovation that Boris managed to get even before he spoke.

But he had little to worry about in a speech which could well be used as a textual example in future of the triumph of style over substance. As Baldrick may well have said, Boris must have a cunning plan to take over from Dave or none at all, since there were no clues to be found in this half hour. Maybe he thought his success spoke for itself but to do so silently is a dangerous tactic for the recidivists seeking meat to munch and bones to crunch.

He popped out from under his hair, now and again, to remind delegates how well he was doing in London, frightened them slightly by referring to the deserving poor and the living wage and peered out occasionally from under the thatch to crack a joke. He even praised Ken Livingstone for his part in the Olympics—a step too far for most of the now confused delegates —before wandering off into other suspicious areas suggesting cooperation, not confrontation. Was he reminding delegates from the job-starved Midlands and the North, not to mention Scotland Wales and Northern Ireland, that the London way ahead could be neatly transferred. If he was, he was not daft enough to say it.

And so, Dave looked increasingly relieved as the minutes ticked by, with pledges of support intertwined with Borisisms. Then, as suddenly as he appeared, he was gone and the crowd stood up for him again and then  left for lunch obviously unsatisfied. Dave had been asked earlier what Boris could get for his birthday. ”He’s giving me a relatively light day, which is good of him,” he said. Little did he know how true that was.

David Cameron watches Boris Johnson deliver his speech to the Conservative Party conference in Birmingham. Photograph: Getty Images.

Peter McHugh is the former Director of Programmes at GMTV and Chief Executive Officer of Quiddity Productions

Qusai Al Shidi/Flickr
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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war