Gosh, um, well, where to start? At the beginning I guess, with the birth of our protagonist. Any good Classical play needs a hero, and in this instance, that will be me; Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson.
My legacy and contribution will probably be painting over serious political issues with my brush of Dionysian joviality and mirth, by jove! But hold your whinnying horse dear reader, for we are merely pony-trekking in the foothills of my life-mountain.
I obtain my distinctive platinum pudding bowl hair from Turkish ancestors and don’t trade imperial “Alexander” for bumbling “Boris” until my scholarship at Eton. Here I start to make fine contacts with the great, good and disreputable as well as concocting the rumbustious, deceptively slip-shod, Bertie Woosterish mannerisms and Latinate inclinations that make me so popular today. Crede quod habes, et habes, as they say on the mean streets of Walford.
After a splendid education I wangle my way into Balliol College, Oxford to indulge my cravings for Literae Humaniores (that’s Classics to you) alongside a fledgling political career and Bullingdon Club binges. As president of the Oxford Union I hone my debating style in much the same way as Leonardo once whittled his trusty sketching pencil in sixteenth century Florence and I also meet my first wife, Oxford’s very own Venus of Abingdon; Allegra Mostyn Owen.
I get a spot of ruddy good luck with my first job on The Times but after, well, umm, aarrgh, indiscretions – some utter rot about making things up, I move to The Telegraph. They pack me off to Europe where I see off Eurocrats right, left and centre in a not dissimilar fashion to Hannibal on his journey over the Pyrenees, through my “Johnsonian Brand Euro Hand Grenades of Truth”. I lob these over the wall into the Garden of Earthly Delights, aka the European Parliament, but some of these may have been, umm, slightly, gggrrrr, economical with the old veritas, crikey.
I’m a bit of a Tory hero by now and have a bash at some journalism and politics – combined honours – back over in Blightly. Now onto my long-suffering second wife Marina, I dabble in a couple of affairs during my time as Spectator Ed and Henley MP but grrr, crikey, most of this is an inverted pyramid of piffle. Anyway, classical literature ought to be replete with the munificent involvement of Eros, plus someone who is literally busting with as much spunk as I am should probably be given a little leeway. Carpe diem, or Carpe posh bird, as any East end resident can relate to. Vox populi, vox dei and vote Boris for London Mayor!
I knuckle down a bit under pressure from the Tory high-emperors but haven’t really achieved very much, if you must ask. Boris Bikes are a good wheeze though aren’t they? I’d quite like to be PM one day because it still rankles that man-of-the-people Dave got a first in PPE and I bally well wrung out my socks and got an Upper Second. In my quest for power I might have to sit through a few more years of TFL meetings but as long as I can nosh out a book on the Roman Empire every so often and substantiate my “chickenfeed” wages with a national newspaper column and comedy TV appearances I suppose it could be jolly tolerable. Vulpem pilum mutat, non mores.
I am allowing myself to start a description of this incredibly diverse, religious, historically rich and philosophically important country with a hackneyed spiritual phrase: The journey in India is as important as the destination.










