Commons Confidential: Is Boris heading for a seat in Kensington?

PLUS: Why Bob Crow turned down <em>Big Brother</em>.

Most Tory MPs I’ve spoken to expect Boris Johnson to break another promise and stand in a safe Tory seat at the May 2015 election, doubling for a year as Mayor of London. Parliament would be his entry ticket to the Conservative leadership raffle, should the blond ambition’s Buller junior David Cameron lose at the polls. A place in cabinet would be Johnson’s consolation prize should – splutter, ruffles hair, crikey! –Dave triumph. Johnson must find, of course, a desirable Tory constituency. Noblesse oblige is likely to see another Old Etonian, Frank “Zac” Goldsmith, seek a second term in Richmond Park. The gossip on the House of Commons terrace before MPs went on their hols was of Johnson popping up in Kensington. It’s in London, posh, rock-solid Tory; the sitting tenant, Sir Malcolm Rifkind, will be nudging 69 next time. And the local worthies value flamboyance: Alan Clark and Michael Portillo were among the past picks. We’ll see.
 
Labour MPs have taken to calling their leader’s youthful team “Ed’s crèche”, as the fallout over ending not mending (or was it the other way round?) union links continues. The trade union group of MPs, the party’s biggest backbench group, if hitherto a sleeping giant, is to re-form in the autumn. The draft statement of aims prizes Labour’s industrial ties, a direction of travel likely to have Miliband reaching for the antihistamines.
 
I discovered that the hapless Tory Aidan Burley –dumped as a parliamentary aide over a Nazi-themed stag do before dismissing Danny Boyle’s widely applauded Olympic opening ceremony as “lefty multicultural crap” – has quietly left the all-party work and pensions committee. I’m not surprised. A stentorian Glenda Jackson took a dislike to Burley, dismissing the underling with Oscar-winning contempt. Young Burley was well and truly Glenda’d.
 
Labour spent £6.54 for each vote won in the South Shields by-election by the victorious local lass Emma Lewell-Buck. The Shields Gazette calculated that Ukip’s second place cost it £7.97 a vote, with the Cons, a poor third, shelling out a mere £1.85 a throw. The biggest losers were the Lib Dems, each cross on a ballot paper for the yellow peril a cofferemptying £17.91 – with an embarrassing seventh place in return. Austerity doesn’t start at home for Nick Clegg.
 
Bob Crow the cockney express, Britain’s most recognisable trade union general secretary, turned down Big Brother. The railway workers’ leader rejected a large wad of notes waved in front of his nose to entice him into the TV madhouse. I for one can’t see Crowbar in a Lycra catsuit.
 
This column is taking its annual summer break and will be back the week before the TUC kicks off the political conference season.
 
Kevin Maguire is the associate editor (politics) of the Daily Mirror 
A seat in Kensington would be Boris's entry to the Conservative leadership raffle. Photograph: Getty Images

Kevin Maguire is Associate Editor (Politics) on the Daily Mirror and author of our Commons Confidential column on the high politics and low life in Westminster. An award-winning journalist, he is in frequent demand on television and radio and co-authored a book on great parliamentary scandals. He was formerly Chief Reporter on the Guardian and Labour Correspondent on the Daily Telegraph.

This article first appeared in the 29 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue

Steve Garry
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The footie is back. Three weeks in and what have we learned so far?

Barcleys, boots and big names... the Prem is back.

Another season, another reason for making whoopee cushions and giving them to Spurs fans to cheer them up during the long winter afternoons ahead. What have we learned so far?

Big names are vital. Just ask the manager of the Man United shop. The arrival of Schneiderlin and Schweinsteiger has done wonders for the sale of repro tops and they’ve run out of letters. Benedict Cumberbatch, please join Carlisle United. They’re desperate for some extra income.

Beards are still in. The whole Prem is bristling with them, the skinniest, weediest player convinced he’s Andrea Pirlo. Even my young friend and neighbour Ed Miliband has grown a beard, according to his holiday snaps. Sign him.

Boots Not always had my best specs on, but here and abroad I detect a new form of bootee creeping in – slightly higher on the ankle, not heavy-plated as in the old days but very light, probably made from the bums of newborn babies.

Barclays Still driving me mad. Now it’s screaming from the perimeter boards that it’s “Championing the true Spirit of the Game”. What the hell does that mean? Thank God this is its last season as proud sponsor of the Prem.

Pitches Some groundsmen have clearly been on the weeds. How else can you explain the Stoke pitch suddenly having concentric circles, while Southampton and Portsmouth have acquired tartan stripes? Go easy on the mowers, chaps. Footballers find it hard enough to pass in straight lines.

Strips Have you seen the Everton third kit top? Like a cheap market-stall T-shirt, but the colour, my dears, the colour is gorgeous – it’s Thames green. Yes, the very same we painted our front door back in the Seventies. The whole street copied, then le toot middle classes everywhere.

Scott Spedding Which international team do you think he plays for? I switched on the telly to find it was rugby, heard his name and thought, goodo, must be Scotland, come on, Scotland. Turned out to be the England-France game. Hmm, must be a member of that famous Cumbrian family, the Speddings from Mirehouse, where Tennyson imagined King Arthur’s Excalibur coming out the lake. Blow me, Scott Spedding turns out to be a Frenchman. Though he only acquired French citizenship last year, having been born and bred in South Africa. What’s in a name, eh?

Footballers are just so last season. Wayne Rooney and Harry Kane can’t score. The really good ones won’t come here – all we get is the crocks, the elderly, the bench-warmers, yet still we look to them to be our saviour. Oh my God, let’s hope we sign Falcao, he’s a genius, will make all the difference, so prayed all the Man United fans. Hold on: Chelsea fans. I’ve forgotten now where he went. They seek him here, they seek him there, is he alive or on the stairs, who feckin’ cares?

John Stones of Everton – brilliant season so far, now he is a genius, the solution to all of Chelsea’s problems, the heir to John Terry, captain of England for decades. Once he gets out of short trousers and learns to tie his own laces . . .

Managers are the real interest. So refreshing to have three young British managers in the Prem – Alex Neil at Norwich (34), Eddie Howe at Bournemouth (37) and that old hand at Swansea, Garry Monk, (36). Young Master Howe looks like a ball boy. Or a tea boy.

Mourinho is, of course, the main attraction. He has given us the best start to any of his seasons on this planet. Can you ever take your eyes off him? That handsome hooded look, that sarcastic sneer, the imperious hand in the air – and in his hair – all those languages, he’s so clearly brilliant, and yet, like many clever people, often lacking in common sense. How could he come down so heavily on Eva Carneiro, his Chelsea doctor? Just because you’re losing? Yes, José has been the best fun so far – plus Chelsea’s poor start. God, please don’t let him fall out with Abramovich. José, we need you.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism