Questions are being asked throughout the galaxy today: as Boris Johnson’s popularity continues to soar, life-forms everywhere are asking: ‘Who is this Boris? Is he really who he claims to be? Or, as many people now suspect, did he drop from outer space in a capsule, landing in the Pacific on a calm January night, beaming his way onto land and then hitch-hiking (of course) to the airport before stowing away on a plane to Heathrow? – in short, is Boris Johnson in fact Zaphod Beeblebrox? Leaving aside the vexed question of the extra head, let us consider the evidence point by point:
* Boris and Zaphod are both eccentric, not to say zany and whacky
* They both wish to rule the universe but are stuck in a smaller sphere; Boris as mayor of London and Zaphod as ruler of the galaxy.
It may be objected that Zaphod has two heads and Boris only one; and furthermore, that Boris is fair while the big Z is dark: but I submit that Zaphod has merely projected an invisible force-field over one of his heads and has simply dyed his hair blond. Has anyone looked at Boris’s roots lately?
Zena Hurdle, of Cockfosters, Outer Spiral Arm of London, testifies that on a visit to her local library, Boris shook her hand and then kissed her on both cheeks – at once! ‘I was very startled,’ she said. ‘How could he kiss me on both cheeks at once unless he actually had two heads?’
I rest my case.
If further evidence were needed, people are now talking about Boris as the next leader of the Conservative party. Can anything suggest more plainly that we have the big Z at work here?
Bong! In other news, Daniel came home proudly bearing his graphics folder last night. He took me through each page giving me the hows and whys of the images selected and pointing out the marks he got (Bs, As and A*s) The teacher had written on the folder ‘What can I say? Daniel, you are a natural!’
Bong! Today I shall also be meeting John Hegley as he is in Leicester for a day or so. I can’t afford the performance but the workshop is free so I shall be heading down there this morning. I may take a poem I wrote yesterday based on Lewis Carroll’s ‘You are Old, Father William’. It’s about looking in the mirror and being shocked by the image you see as it clashes with the one in your head. The one in your head is always 20 years younger and much better-looking. It begins:
You are old, sister Wilma, the looking-glass said
crows have trodden the edge of your eyes
and yet you persist in not painting your face
do you think, at your age, it is wise?
In my youth, I replied, I was terribly shy
and never unsettled a goose
I wore make-up in spades; but now, as youth fades
I feel I can set myself loose.