Taking Boris For A Ride
Boris Johnson is very proud of his bicycle
He’s late, somewhat inevitably. It’s Monday morning, and I’ve been welcomed into the Spectator building by a succession of friendly ladies. Everyone is waiting for Boris, it seems. The whole building hums with a sense of expectation. Secretaries pore over the tabloids, searching for references to the Tory icon in the latest newspaper gossip columns. The phone goes on Boris’s desk, and his PA answers it.
A lengthy and convoluted conversation ensues, involving something to do with Battersea Dog’s Home, a football match and a young man (me, I infer). “That was his wife,” she confides. “He won’t be long.” I look around the office, which has a dusty, rumpled, eccentric and somewhat battered ambiance, not unlike its occupant. There is a large desk, on which an iMac is a rare concession to modernity.
The walls are peppered with originals of political cartoons, most of which chart the ignominious decline of the Conservative Party. There are lots of books: leather-bound volumes of The Spectator, dating back decades; a pile of copies of Boris’s novel, The Seventy Two Virgins, waiting to be signed.
On the shelf above the fireplace, amongst the many political biographies and reference works that one might expect, sit more surprising works, such as When Beckham Went To Spain; Liverpool – The First 1000 Years; and, most reassuringly, a copy of the Viz Profanisaurus. Eventually, familiar plummy tones drift up from the street, and the front door bangs.
Apanting and tousled figure rounds the banisters, and suddenly, there he is, tramping up the stairs: Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, anoraked and bicycle- clipped, looking slightly the worse for wear. His entrance could hardly have been more surreal. On his back is a rucksack, out of which is peeping a small dog.
Not only does Boris juggle the occupations of Member of Parliament, editor of a national magazine, Telegraph columnist, author, broadcaster and father of four – he also looks after Harry, his PA’s dog, at weekends. Harry is released from the rucksack, seemingly unfazed by his hazardous voyage from Islington. Boris, on the other hand, seems flustered. By order of the wife, he has to go immediately to his son’s school for an important football match.
“We’ll do the interview in the cab, if that’s OK,” he says, and we race down the stairs and out into the street. Installed in the back of a black cab, I marvel at this frenetic lifestyle. So, Boris, with your numerous jobs and your evident family commitments, how do you do it all? “With a bicycle. And a mobile phone.” He brandishes the latter.
And what are you doing today? “Well, after this football match, I’ve got to write a 10,000 word outline for a book, write my column for the Henley Standard, prepare for a conference on the legality of the war in Iraq which we’re sponsoring, and I’m hosting or something on Wednesday … and then there’s the Road Safety Bill in the Commons tomorrow."
Here, Boris begins to get rather worked up: “This is where I’ve really managed to strike a blow for freedom as a liberator, er, legislator.” Boris, it seems, is heading for another collision with his party’s leadership. The Tories are tabling an amendment to the Road Safety Bill which would make cyclists liable for the same fines as drivers for using a mobile whilst on the road, and Johnson is claiming he’s going to stop them.
He’s already made clear how vital these are in managing his punishing schedule, and his determination to prevent the legislation is near fanatical. “It’s an outrage,” he splutters, “And typical of this government,” (er, wasn’t it the Tories who proposed this amendment? Too late) “We have far too many laws in this country. Every time a new law is brought in a fairy dies.” This, it seems, is the bedrock of his political credo, the theme he returns to again and again.
“I am a legislative minimalist. We should let people get on with their own lives, and let them spend their own money as much as possible.” Not only is he a legislative minimalist, he seems something of a parliamentary minimalist too. “I think we should have a massacre of politicians. I want the gutters to run with blood.” Who would be first in line, I wonder? “Oh, I’m not going to go into that, but 659 is just far too many. 500 would do."
The imbalance between Northern and Southern members is particularly irksome: “I and my fellow southern MPs often have upwards of 70,000 constituents, whereas some chap in Glasgow has only 40,000. It’s an outrage and an infamy – grossly undemocratic.” And unfair to the Tories? “Of course."
As one who uniquely holds positions on both sides, who does he feel holds the balance of power in the perpetual battle between political establishment and the ‘fourth estate’? “Oh, politicians are certainly more powerful. But they’re too often guilty of cowardice in the face of the media, which is totally wrong. We certainly shouldn’t obey them.” We? Which side of the fence does he feel the strongest affinity with? Boris hums and mutters, for a small eternity.
“Oh, I don’t know. Politician.” So would he rule out editing The Telegraph, for example – a career choice that would undoubtedly preclude him from continuing to sit in the Commons? “I don’t think anyone would want me to at the moment”, he says – though he refuses to dismiss the idea. Johnson shows little regret at having left the political front line. “None whatsoever. It’s made no material difference to my income or my day. Although I do miss the arts side of things."
Equally there seems little desire to rise through the ranks once more, and media speculation about possible leadership ambitions is brushed off immediately. “No, no, I’m just a footsoldier … third spear carrier.” Does he see anyone else amongst his younger colleagues who might one day replace Howard? “No, no. Michael Howard’s going to go on and on.” He seems distracted. “Old Man Howard."
And then Boris begins to sing, and a surprisingly sonorous voice fills the back of the taxi as we draw up to the traffic lights on the Embankment. “Old Man Howard, that Old Man Howard, he just keeps rolling, just keeps rolling.” He trails off, and I ask him about the forthcoming election. “Oh, I’m looking forward to it immensely.” And what’s going to happen? There is a lengthy pause. “Oh, er, we’re going to win it, of course. Not by very much.
Probably between 60 and 100 seats.” His confidence in the Tories seems somewhat muted, and I ask what he makes of the direction Howard is taking the party. “He’s doing the right thing concentrating on the public services – people are bored of Europe.” Boris himself is not, however. “I’m what I’ve always been, a Eurosceptic. But with a positive vim for the future.
Europe needs to get bigger, to become a gigantic free trade zone of happiness and wellbeing, with much less Eurolaw, of course.” As the taxi draws near to the school, I enquire as to whether he feels vindicated in publishing an article criticising Liverpudlian attitudes, after the football violence that has recently plagued Merseyside. “Er, no comment. I enjoyed my trip to Liverpool. As human beings, they’re very nice.” And then he’s off.
I lend him some money to help pay for the cab, and the last I see of him is his rumpled, sandy-headed figure beetling towards the playing fields.
21st Apr 2005