Boris Johnson’s party conference speech reminded me of my children at their most outlandish

Obviously, there is a germ of truth in the aphorism about children saying the funniest things. They don’t generally mean it, however, so even though it’s cute, we’re basically laughing at them rather than with them. And that’s just mean when you think about it.

It may also be true that children tell the biggest whoppers, their innate stubbornness not yet smoothed at the edges by social mores. Their lies are mostly not deliberate untruths, but expressions of imaginative thinking or a desired outcome.

Likewise, blatant cheating by young kids tends to be a buffer against their own dented confidence, or a reflection of the sadness that some feel when a game is lost. That’s not to say it isn’t annoying.

My son is currently in a period of his life when losing a game – especially a sporting one – is exceedingly challenging. His sixth year has been dominated by a growing obsession with cricket, which I have readily helped to nurture. He has spurned CBeebies in favour of YouTube footage of past Test matches, and it is a daily requirement that we play at least one game of bedroom cricket: sometimes a limited overs format, other times 11 men per side. Those can go on a bit.

He is, for a six-year-old, a decent batsman, albeit playing on a pitch about three yards long with no fielders to worry about. But in recent weeks I have been unable to buy a wicket. LBW was ruled out a long time ago, due to unresolvable arguments about whether the ball pitched outside leg stump. But now if he is bowled out I am immediately informed that he was not ready. Or he might apologetically tell me with a chuckle, “Sorry Daddy, I’m afraid that was a no-ball”.

Following my daughter’s recent discovery of Agatha Christie, we’ve been talking a lot about unreliable narrators. My son is certainly a living example. The other morning, as he checked the cricket scores on a tablet, the internet had one of its regular pauses. As Tristan jabbed in frustration at the screen, I explained that there was no point trying to reload the page, the wifi box downstairs was just having a moment and he would need to be patient.

“But Daddy, most people have 50 or 100 internet boxes! You need to have more than one!” I didn’t see the point in having a row about it.

Not long ago, after he arrived home from school feeling down in the mouth, I asked what he had done during break time. “Oh nothing,” he said mournfully, “I just stood by myself and looked at the birds.” It was rather heartbreaking, until we mentioned it to a friend who works at the school who said she had seen Tristan that day playing with various friends throughout the break.

At university, I had a friend who was equally adept at arguing that black was white. If you tried to explain a contrary view, he would pause, smile sweetly and say simply, “Ah, well, I’m sorry but in fact you’re wrong”. You might try again, but it was like talking to a suave brick wall. “I hear what you’re saying, but I’m afraid you’re just not right.” It was completely infuriating.

If this kind of thing is forgivable in a child, and even in a university mate who at least half knows he’s winding you up, what are we to make of it in a prime minister? Certainly, I was put in mind of my son when I heard Boris Johnson’s party conference speech. There was the nonsense about Britain being at risk of a “know-nothing cancel culture”, which plays well with the party faithful but is patently ridiculous. Then the stuff about thanking capitalism for giving us Covid vaccines. But what about the scientists? “Ah well, yes, yes, but actually I’m sorry it’s the bankers you should be really grateful for.”

Of course, there were also all the old mantras about “levelling up” and “getting Brexit done”, which have been spouted ad nauseum for years without anything happening, and which reminded me of my children’s constant refrain if I dare to ask about their homework: “Daddy, I’m doing it!” The word “later” goes unsaid.

Of course, it’s tempting to laugh, just as I often do when my son tells me something outlandish. But if in fact it’s prime ministers who say the funniest things, then something has gone decidedly wrong.