I'm a Johnson... get me out of here

Today, another extract from that great classic, "Boswell's Life of Boris Johnson".

I had not seen my mentor, the learned Boris Johnson, since his enforced visit to the great northern city of Liverpool, so when I encountered him at his office in Doughty Street, where he dictates the contents of The Spectator periodical, I ventured to inquire into his impressions of the city on the river Mersey.

"Why, sir," he said, "Liverpool is a strange city, having a past and a future, but no present. In the past, it has been one of the world's great ports. In future, it promises to be a city of European culture. At present, it does not know what it is. It is like a woman between two marriages, unable to relax and unwilling to take any advice. Were they to take my advice, the people of Liverpool should go abroad for a few years and come back when the place is improved."

I asked him how he felt now that the leader of his party, Mr Howard, had relieved him of his post as shadow Arts minister.

"As to that, sir," said Johnson, "I wish he had done it earlier."

I asked him why.

"Think, man, think," he said to me. "If Mr Howard had dismissed me two weeks before, he would not have had the power to send me to Liverpool. I do not entirely blame him for his actions. To be leader of Her Majesty's opposition is to have almost no power at all. The Prime Minister can send an army to Iraq, to kill and maim the inhabitants. All Mr Howard can do is send a man to Liverpool, and have its people turn on him.

"Of course, Mr Howard must demonstrate what little power he has. It must, however, strike his critics that, in the past fortnight, all his demonstrations of power have concerned me. He has questioned my veracity. He has impugned my private life. He has sent me to Liverpool. He has dismissed me from my post. Many people will now be asking: is there anything Mr Howard can do which does not involve Mr Johnson?"

Although Mr Johnson is still a Member of Parliament, his political life is, for the moment, curtailed, so I inquired of him in what direction his prodigious energy would next take him. Would he redouble his efforts at The Spectator?

"Why, sir," he said, "were I to heed advice from some quarters, I would turn The Spectator into a lonely hearts agency. You have heard the rumours about the Home Secretary and our lady publisher. You may even have heard those regarding myself and a lady writer. There are those who urge me to go further, and turn The Spectator into a magazine for romance, attracting readers with the heady whiff of potential partnership.

"It may be for this reason that the proprietors have sent in Mr Neil, a journalist with a hard face and a hatchet, to stand over me as I work. It was ever thus, for the Scots to descend and tell the English what to do. They are a contrary lot, the Scots. They cannot erect a Parliament building without courting bankruptcy, nor play football against any country without losing, yet they venture to lecture the English on our conduct."

I said that he should be careful what he said about Scotland, for fear Mr Neil might make him travel north to apologise to the place, as had happened in Liverpool.

"You may be right, sir, you may be right. Besides, I was but lately talking to some other writers of my acquaintance also called Johnson, such as Mr Paul Johnson and Mr Frank Johnson, and we were minded to make much money from a television programme. The idea would be to take as many members of the Johnson tribe as we could find, including such as the rugby player Martin Johnson, and the actress Celia Johnson, and go to the jungle to create a programme called 'I'm a Johnson... Get Me Out Of Here!' Think you not this would be grand?"

I said I thought that Celia Johnson was long since dead. He said, fie, there were many other Johnsons in the sea, and with that we parted.