HE dangles from a zip wire, waving Union flags.
Oh, Boris! What have you been up to now? Unintentionally suspended 150ft up, during a daft Olympics stunt, Mr Johnson of that ilk kept the UK in suspense as well. Could the Mayor of Londonshire really become our future Prime Minister?
A hollow laugh echoes down the corridors of power. Then comes silence. Realisation dawns: no, really, he could become leader of All Britainshire. Consider: the Joker has already taken over Gotham.
In the words of Margaret Thatcher, it's a funny old world. But let's get it into serious perspective. Boris has had a good Olympics. The Olympics is all about London. And its scatty mayor cuts a more attractive and entertaining figure than the newt-fondling fop formerly in charge.
Cut, once more, to the image of him dangling helplessly above the crowds in Victoria Park. His heels are locked together, his legs bowed. He's holding one patriotic flag up, one down, in a spurious simulation of signalling. His mouth is open. Despite a blue helmet on his head, he's otherwise dressed as The Man: dark suit, white shirt, black shoes, navy socks.
He dangles but does not panic. He resigns himself to dangling. Cleverly, daringly, admirably, he affects gravitas, wilfully enhancing the absurdity, giving it a Monty Python air: the Establishment figure from the Ministry of Silly Stunts.
Who would not warm to this? The usual grimlings, pedants, uber-adults and windbags, I suppose. If, with arrogance born of long practised hypocrisy, I might speak for them, their point is that you cannot have a man in metaphorical clown shoes and twangy braces representing us at, say, the United Nations. Mr Johnson makes a good mayor, where a capacity to unite entertainment with an understanding of water rates can take the right man far. When it came to wars, diplomacy and economic crisis, he would be crucified, not least by those now cheering him on. Thus the human race. Never trust your cheerleaders. Their ra-ra skirts harbour knives.
Given those self-evident truths, how has talk of Mr Johnson as PM become so widespread? Well, this news just in: people like him. With his teddy bear mien and two-year-old's tousled hair, we nearly all find him endearing.
He's intelligent and unpredictable. He likes a laugh and departs from the script. Labour's challenger for PM, Ed Miliband, is all script and no conversation. His are the political shibboleths of a parrot.
In a straight contest between Mr Johnson's Bertie Wooster and Mr Miliband's Mr Bean, the country laughs at both. Mr Johnson wins by a hatstand because, crucially, he can laugh at himself. Alone in Britain, Mr Miliband takes himself seriously, and therein lies his chief flaw.
As for becoming PM, the stunt that supposedly destroyed Mr Johnson's hopes has only increased the people's ardour. Online, the clip has gone viral. He is someone you can easily set to music, preferably with a prominent tuba.
Something troubles me about him. He's not of my world. The nearest I came to the Bullingdon Club was the Young Leith Team. Not a sporting outfit, you understand, but a gang. Alas, I failed the medical.
Then there's the feeling that Mr Johnson is all style and no substance. Arguably, that's better than being all bile and no substance like, say, Ian Davidson MP. But there's bile in Boris too, particularly when — like Labour's equally viral Mr Davidson — it comes to Scotland.
Childlike as he is, he believes in the "subsidy junkie" myth and, like his newt-worrying nemesis (failed), has slandered us in the past when campaigning for London. True, he's just instructed London bus drivers to accept Scottish currency.
But Johnson PM would leave us short-changed. My money's on Mr Johnson heading for a fall. The gods of his beloved classical world dangle him before us like an amusing, rudely shaped carrot. But, one day, they're going to let him go.
Whether through his sex life, unguarded statements or flapping when faced with the cruel world's crippling horrors, he's going to botch up big-style. And none of us will know whether to laugh or cry.
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