WHO was it going to be? The one who would run into the hero’s arms as soon as he finished his first speech to the Conservative faithful. Would it be Carrie Symonds, the “current” girlfriend, as Boris Johnson once described his wife, or would party bosses play it safe and send in the rescue pup?
In the event he occupied the stage alone and left it in the same manner. Just when he was receiving pats on the back from the audience, Ms Symonds appeared suddenly, as if by magic, took his hand and steered him to the exit. Hillary Clinton once said of Bill that he was “a hard dog to keep on the porch”; Ms Symonds was clearly taking no chances with her pooch.
On his way in the Tory ranks welcomed him with chants of “Boris, Boris” and here and there a few people waved placards. By Trump rally standards it was a poor show. He attempted a high five with the Chancellor, Sajid Javid, which ended in tangled mess of fingers and fists. He had better luck with Priti Patel, the Home Secretary, who got an old fashioned hug.
Mr Johnson’s speech sounded as though the ink was still drying on it. He began coherently enough, even managing to keep a straight face while paying tribute to “Theresa”. There was a pause, as if delegates had trouble remembering who she was. You know what it’s like: one toppled leader is a tragedy, umpteen is a statistic. In homage to Mrs May, the backdrop was clear of anything that might drop off, and there was a moat-like space in front of the stage that meant no jokers with fake P45s could get near.
The Prime Minister spoke without an autocue, slapping the lectern for emphasis and stamping his feet. If he had tied cymbals to his legs and put a drum on his back he could have banged out a tune. Instead what we got was a wall of pure Johnsonian white noise, vast expanses of waffle punctuated by random phrases. Crackle, crackle, crackle … “SUPER-MASTICATED BREXIT!” …. Fizz, fizz, fizz … “KONSTANTIN CHERNENKO!” … Pop, pop, pop, “TENDRILS OF SUPERINFORMATIVE VERMICELLI!”
He mentioned new technology a lot, as when comparing broadband to pasta and likening the Commons to a frozen laptop where the screen was showing the “pizza wheel of doom”. Say what you like, those technology lessons from yon American businesswoman do seem to have paid off.
Warming to his theme, he added that if parliament were a reality TV show “the whole lot of us would have been voted out of the jungle by now. But at least we could have watched the speaker being forced to eat a kangaroo testicle”. A quick search of the records reveals that to be the first and probably last mention of marsupial cojones in any party conference speech, make that any speech, ever.
The creature feature jokes were not over. “It is one of the many bizarre features of the SNP that in spite of being called names like Salmond and Sturgeon they are committed to handing back those fish to the control of the EU,” he snickered, adding: “We want to turbo-charge the Scottish fishing sector; they would allow Brussels to charge for our turbot.” And you thought fish smelled badly after a week.
Towards the end he gave up all semblance of proceeding down a straight road, tearing up one blind alley after another on subjects ranging from buses to batteries. When it came time for the big bang ending he was instead like a slowly deflating hot air balloon coming in to land, rambling on about sending Jeremy Corbyn into orbit.
Far out, man. Far out.
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