IT’S said that Boris Johnson doesn’t actually lie, he just tells people what they want to hear and then contradicts himself within the hour. He does this, so the story goes, because he likes to be liked; can’t bear it when he’s not and like an over-anxious puppy he paws and slobbers, eyes pleading "love me".

This is the basis of his so-called charm which he’s used on many a woman with devastating effect. Well, devastating when you’re the one left holding the baby or keeping the family together.

And when caught out, like the surly little boy he once was, he lowers his head, hunches his shoulders and peers up through his hair to say, "Sorry, it wasn’t my fault. It’s just the way I am."

Indulged all his life, he hasn’t fully realised yet that this pose no longer works when the little boy lost has turned into an overweight, shambling, "bag of muck tied up ugly" as my grandfather would have said.

And it certainly doesn’t work when you’re hell-bent on destroying the fabric of all you profess to hold dear for the one thing you truly hold dear…yourself.

Now, most women have had a man like this in our lives at some point. He either breaks our hearts or we see him clearly from the start and decide to have fun while it lasts, which won’t be for long.

But – and here comes a massive, sweeping generalisation – most women are unable to guard their hearts, whatever their original intention, and those hearts too end up, if not broken, then badly bruised.

It’s why, though, we can see through the chancers, the feckless, the empty promisers, the players and, however good at it, the liars. It’s our tragedy that we often take them on anyway believing in the restorative power of love.

Silly, silly women we are.

Anyway, sickened, disturbed and despairing of daily politics and by the tricks and inducements employed by so many snake-oil salesmen, I found myself thinking all this while watching his latest "homemade" video released to the public.

Heavily focussing on his cheeky chappie persona, he even discusses Thai home deliveries, Marmite and oven chips. (Many tweets have been sent to me asking if I’ll now forswear my beloved, staple diet of oven chips, now that Johnson loves them. The answer is No. The joy of oven chips will long outlast Johnson.)

He can’t resist flirting with the camera, the male acolyte interviewer, the blank wall. It’s what he does. What worked through Eton, Oxford and, I’m sorry to say, journalism.

Newspapers have always given Johnson a licence to lie and cheat, because he was amusing and "one of us".’ It’s why he’s known as Boris, as if a cuddly bear we all could sit and drink with and have a laugh.

As if. His bonhomie is false, his journalistic credentials not much better and if some of the public seriously entertain the idea he’d be their mate, then I pity them.

Like Cameron before him, Johnson’s circle is small; formed by school, university and the upper echelons of The Telegraph. Maybe even the Russian elite….allegedly.

I’m sure he privately despises the adoring coterie of plebs who surround him in Cabinet while sending them off to spread his word, with a pat on the back and a "good man"; leaving them glowing in his radiance.

But I sense a sea change….sands are shifting, the ship is rocking, no longer on a set course.

Unable to keep him confined during an election campaign, the puppet masters have had to lengthen the leash and let Johnson out in public – with, of course, limited controlled access.

And so he came to Yorkshire, the graveyard of many a poncey Londoner and now under seemingly uncontrolled floods. He came late, of course, as Dominic Cummings agonised over whether to send him forth.

Oh, dear, oh, dear. Blunt as always, the Yorkshire people told him – a bit effing late, mate. Where’ve you been? He shuffled, hunched, peered down at the ground and whiffle-waffled.

It didn’t work as they looked at him with barely disguised contempt.

My favourite of all was the woman he approached to ask: How are you?

Alright, thank you, she answered automatically, but when he asked further, she said: "I’m not very happy about talking to you so if you don’t mind, I’ll just mooch along. You’ve done nothing to help us."

Unfortunately, we only saw him from the back – a slight slump but then he moved on to the army volunteers who, of course, had to smile and even simper. His back straightened.

The last bad ‘boy’ I knew – long, long, time ago – walked out of my life with similar slumped shoulders. I’d called him out on his cheating and lies. His denials were heartfelt; his pleading eyes asking for understanding; his boyish shrug designed to appeal.

"Go on now, go, walk out the door. Just turn around now 'cause you’re not welcome anymore."

The women have spoken and, like the Yorkshire woman, will do when it counts. At the count.

We see you Johnson. We see you.