LIAR, adulterer, law breaker, incompetent. Boris Johnson may be known for many things, but for some reason his athletic prowess never tends to feature.

However, as the tennis world limbers up for its annual jamboree in London, allow me to suspend the normal rules of political invective, replace one racket for another and bring the court of public discourse to the manicured lawns of SW19. Welcome to Wimbledon… Westminster style.

Of course, our dear leader is no stranger to using tennis to serve up a scandal, having defended a £160,000 donation to the Tories made by a former Russian minister’s wife in return for a match with him. So extending the sporting metaphor to his talent for deflection, denial, delusion, lack of decency, double standards and outright bull seems quite fitting.

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Indeed, his ability to feign, dodge and smash the truth out the park is legendary and makes Johnson a world-class player – in many ways he resembles a chubbier version of Boris Becker, with only a little less integrity.

And if he can find a way to cheat, by golly he will. Armed with his specially made “dead cat” racket, he annihilates rivals by either ignoring them or pretending to be injured only to instantly recover. Sneaky, but effective. No shot (otherwise known as the truth) is too powerful to defend against.

But of late, the good old Bojo mojo has been faltering. He’s been losing his footing, breathlessly panting around the court like a demented despot. Those reliable Brexit steroids he snorts pre-match – that up until now have worked wonders – are wearing off. His one-time loyal fans are growing restless and want new balls, please.

PPE contracts, chumocracy, Rwandan expulsions, free foreign holidays, Downing Street flat decorations and so on – they were easy to see off with a deft back-hand spin or comedy-fuelled serve.

There have been casualties – that ball girl Allegra Stratton who simply got in the way, and Cummings… well, even Sir Andy Murray has had to change coach.

The cost-of-living crisis led to a brief recovery, of sorts. Without a hint of panic he fired back with his knee-jerk “big bazooka” windfall tax (sorry, a temporary targeted energy profits levy) and a U-turn (sorry, not a U-turn, just a change in policy direction in the shape of a “U” ), momentarily putting opponents on the back foot.

But now he’s met his match in Partygate – Bjorn “Susan Gray” Borg to his wildman McEnroe, and the sweat on Boris’s headband is starting to show. Like the relentless five-time Wimbers champ’s best game, the tennis balls or evidence keep coming, harder, faster and without mercy . . . and it’s hurting. And those pictures? “M&S sandwiches, not strawberries and cream? And why are all those people blurred out? We weren’t that drunk.”

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And even the nostalgia deflectors – imperial measures, right-to-buy and Churchill quotes – aren’t doing the trick. He thought he heard booing earlier, but told Carrie not to get upset – it’s just the echoes caused by the new roof in Centre Court that warps the cheers of the masses.

There’s always the death shot to democracy that adversaries are powerless against. Just rewrite the ministerial code and remove the need to resign. What are rules for if they can’t be broken? Easy.

But his backroom team just wouldn’t let it go, serving up those no confidence letters. Turncoats. He’d survived some close scrapes before, but last night’s was a tough one. Never mind. Still here. Game, set and match to Boris… for now.

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