Swashbuckling Boris tried to make his innings at No 10 all about thrash and thwack — it left him, and us, stumped

So that’s it then: “Bozball” is consigned to history. All out. Dismissed with not so much a golden duck as a daffy one. This should not be confused with “Bazball”, the magnificent, era-defining thrash and dash conjured up by the England cricket team. Narrow defeat to the world champions Australia does not consign that glorious iteration of the game to the history books. Our Bazball boys are brave revolutionaries, certain to prove undaunted by a single setback. And for the rest of the summer, we will surely still be able to relish Ben Stokes and his men delivering their unique brand of tradition-busting, foot-on-the-throttle, all-out attacking cricket.

On the other hand, Bozball, Boris Johnson’s tradition-busting, foot-on-the-throttle, all-out attacking politics, is a goner. Some may claim he is still biding his time and like his hero Winston Churchill, he will once more step down the pavilion steps and make his way to the crease in triumph. That view, however, is, as he himself might put it, piffle. Bozball is dead. Deader than the Rawalpindi wicket on the fifth day of a Test match. And there is no one to blame other than the man who invented the genre.

Not that it hung around for long. As everyone who had ever encountered him in his jet-heeled trajectory to “world king”, its progenitor was not one destined for longevity. Sure, in December 2019, Johnson delivered an election result that was the equivalent of winning the toss on a perfect June morning and having first dibs at a flat, smooth Lord’s wicket, a playing surface with fewer wrinkles than Madonna’s face. Better still the opposition was captained by a floundering old veteran with a philosophical aversion to victory. And with that triumph, Bozball promised the earth, an oven-ready Brexit and the sunny uplands that lay beyond. Even the tea break was larded with tantalising possibility: we could have our cake and eat it.

But if anyone could spatchcock a golden goose before it had the chance so much as to lay an egg, it was the man behind Bozball. Pretty quickly the fundamental weakness of the system was exposed. Compromised by the captain’s apparent inability to see beyond the urgent necessity to buff up his personal current account, planning was frowned upon, details scoffed at, hard work reckoned for the sissies. Experts? Who needs them? Worse, the skipper maintained the narcissistic certainty that as long as he was there, ready to bat, all would be fine. The others in his line-up really didn’t matter. So he filled his team with a collection of spivs and toffs, over-infatuated fan girls and flop-haired nincompoops. Under pressure from the world’s bowling attack - the Covid googly was a ball none of them had the first inkling of how to face - they wilted and collapsed, chased back to the pavilion in an embarrassing scurry.

Never mind, the Bozster insisted, he was still there at the crease, harrumph and hurrah, that will show em. Rules? Who needed them? He had a pocket full of grit to rub into any passing ball. So he tried to face down the new crisis of the pandemic in the manner he had always done before, bluffing and buffooning, attempting to thrash every short ball into row Z. But pretty soon he was doubled up as ever-quickening deliveries flew right into his box. His groin was left more bruised and battered even than it was when, as London mayor, he used to discuss trade issues with stars and stripes-draped American businesswomen. Worse, he kept running himself out. Just as he looked as if he might be settling in for a decent knock, he’d self-destruct. To the point that finally the finger went up for the last time. And no amount of bravado could disguise the ignominy of his dismissal.

Naturally, he did not go quietly. Bozball was never about introspection or contemplation. Or indeed admitting that you might in any way be at fault. Instead, he followed the playbook of his Don-ball American counterpart. He flung his bat through the pavilion window on his way to the dressing room. He squealed about the umpire, blathering that Hawkeye had got it in for him and that anybody could see the ball was missing leg stump.

No one was having that. The public had seen his thrash and miss, they had tired of his cavalier disregard of things like net practice or studying the opposition’s attack. It was all there on the big screen: he’d had too much cake, and was getting flabby between the stumps, the phwoar and phnarr diminishing into a pitiful wheeze and whine.

So, in his stead, what new sporting philosophy might now await the political public? Maybe what we all crave is a little bit of quiet management, team work not individual flash, inclusivity and thoughtfulness rather than fluster and bluster. Now that Bozball is over, perhaps what would go down well would be if Keir Starmer kitted himself out in a neatly tailored waistcoat for Prime Minister’s Questions. After all, it seems to work for Gareth Southgate.