BoJo Flaptop MopHead

With the exception of six months hotly watching the BBC Parliament Channel as a sickeningly diligent Politics & Government A Level student, I don’t do party conferences.  I don’t really do politics.  I can’t understand why rational people believe in it, year after year, election after election.  I’ve stopped voting because, although I have believed the lies of handsome, stupid men in my time, but I don’t know why I would wish to be consistently lied to and let down by a succession of ugly ones.   Oh, do me a favour, fellow Britons.  I’d rather eat my computer screen than vote for anyone, because I don’t have the necessary qualifications in Bovine Stupidity that you need to believe a manifesto.  Oh yes!  The Labour party are going to give out free apples but the Conservative Party are going to tax bananas and make us eat them!  No, they’re not, children.  They’re going to become sex pests, waste our millions, get oranges, shove them up their irascible arses and disgrace themselves and embarrass their families when the Daily Express finds them tied up in a whorehouse in Croydon.

 Watching the Mayor of London, though, isn’t like watching parlimentary politics.  Although the Mayor has a shedload of responsibilities, it seems to me an endless popularity pageant dotted with the occasional Bus Policy and photo opportunity at City Hall.  Mayor of London is like being one of those soldiers that stand outside St James’s Palace all day, in those big, furry hats that look like massive vaginas.  Yes, we know they’re traditional, and a rather sort of good thing, we quite like to have our photo taken with them for comedy value, but we don’t for a moment know what the hell they’re actually doing there.  Boris Johnson is a bit like that : a massive vagina lodged somewhere between a monarchic palace and Piccadilly Circus.  The purpose of him appears to be to incite jolllity and impress us with his vocabulary talents, to retain popularity whilst wiping out historical buildings in Tower Hamlets on the quiet. 

He was choc-full of gingery, spicy facts at the Conservative Party Conference on Tuesday.  Apparently, the murder rate in London is lower than it was in the 1960s, whereas in Noo Yawk it is four times higher, he tells us.  Presumably it was so high in London in 1960s because of all those winklepicker shoe-related deaths in Beatlemaniac episodes where thousands of young shiny British teens threw themselves towards Macca’s mop top and ended up spearing their heads on George Harrison’s sharp wit.   In other Mayoral observations, Soho is not a “seat of debauchery” any longer, apparently.  I’d suggest he just isn’t looking in the right places, but then if there’s one chap who knows where to find a whip and chain after 7 bottles of Courvoisier in Wardour Street in the small hours, it would be Mr B Johnson, of London S.W.

As if the former colonies needed any further insult lobbed at them from political lobby London, it was with some relish that BoJo informed his audience of hot-footed, sexy and downright gorgeous (*NOT*) Conservative Party faithfuls that the bendy buses of London are now “clogging up the streets of Malta”.    I have been to Malta.  The bendy bus can only improve this dreadful island.  But then it was on to the serious stuff.  I mean the really serious stuff that fills the glossy balding heads of the centre-right luminaries.  Every single chocolate hobnob in the WORLD is made in London.  The conference gasped.  Here the Conservative Party made its worst failure in many years by refusing to produce a raft of knob jokes.  For this we should not forgive them.  We need a statesman with panache.  Cameron is as panache-filled as a two week old stick of celery that was left in the fridge at Conservative Party HQ and which someone just forgot to throw in the bin with last week’s focaccia. 

According to Johnson’s wonderful and lugubrious utilisation of English vocabulary, one of the great joys of the theatre of watching him, was the bizarre phrase that, prior to the start of London 2012 “a giant hormonal valve was opened in the minds of the people”. Never before has the Olympics been described as some kind of enormous mental menopause.  After our giant hormonal whatsits we were all then “suffused with the Ready Brek glow of happiness”.  New Labour also made “such a Horlicks of the Millenium Dome celebrations in 2000”, apparently, and I’m not going to deny that.   BoJo is an unadulterated attack of wordage, of badinage, of linguistic contortions.  As the Standard commented on Tuesday,  this is how “dangerously a classical education can be deployed”.   The danger of Johnson is that he is perceived as a thing of rhetoric, rather than a thing of action, conjugating Latin verbs whilst he races through City Hall passing laws and doing rather competently, thank you.

Cameron grits his teeth and goes on early morning television to sit on pastel-shaded sofas where he is forced to lick up the Johnson worship.  “I have the opposite of tall poppy syndrome, ” he said. “I want to see big stars in the Conservative Party”.  No you don’t you moron.  Big poppies come along and act mad and promote Latin in schools and tap into the nation’s consciousness and CUT OFF the heads of little poppies.  And as poppies go, Mr D C, you are little poppy.  Mini poppy.  Poppy seed.  When it came to Cameron’s Wednesday speech at the conference, the Standard’s ES LIVE running blog seemed so unimpressed and bored by the proceedings that they broke off from constant twitter-like blogging of the conference to announce things like “BREAKING NEWS : One of the members of Pussy Riot has been given a suspended sentence”.   Then it returned to “blah” like Cameron comments about Britain being number one in the world for offshore wind…er..things. 

The problem is that I don’t truly care about either of them, but surely BoJo is the threat that the government are reduced to stroking in public, like an evil kitten?  The public like the evil kitten.  They excuse BoJo all the things that they won’t excuse Cameron for (being raaather po-osh, having between to Eton, having posh hair etc) only because of his beguiling and entrancing way with language, and his apparent refusal to take anything seriously, whilst behind the scenes he drafts Machiavellian masterplans and is, I would put my tenner on, seriously and malignantly plotting some kind of Roman Empire-esque takeover.  Mark my words, BoJo is not the man who will fiddle whilst Cameron burns.  He’s too busy lassoo-ing unfortunate females into extra marital affairs with his albino-like hair.  Cameron’s lack of statesmanship and upper top lip will secure him into a political coffin after the 2015 General Election.  Johnson will most probably stop at nothing to emulate his classical heroes and swiftly move through with political dynamism to take the top spot.

Please return to The London Bluebird if you enjoyed this.  This blog is updated every Thursday.

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