‘Mission largely accomplished … for now,” said Boris Johnson, winding up his final prime minister’s questions with a delusional requiem for his faded glamour. “Hasta la vista, baby.” Yet even in his going, The Pastiche Terminator left open the possibility of his return. He cannot survive without the spotlight. There is no substance to him. Just a carapace of molten neediness that feeds on attention. No matter of what kind. Better to be despised than to be forgotten or ignored. He’d torn the Tories apart once. He’d happily do it all over again.
Only Theresa May remained stony faced, refusing to clap. She alone has some integrity. The rest of the Tory benches stood as one to cheer The Convict out of the chamber. Andrea Jenkyns was in tears. Partly for her career – let’s face it, no one in their right mind is going to make her a junior minister for 10 minutes again – but mainly for a man who would betray her in a heartbeat.
It was bonkers. The same Tory MPs who had spent months summoning up the self-worth to remove a prime minister who had done little, lied a lot and was totally unfit for office, now indulged themselves in a mawkish farewell.
As if they were seeing off a three-term leader with a long record of achievement. Not a lazy poundshop Arnie who squandered an 80-seat majority in a midden of sleaze, corruption and lawbreaking.
Though, perhaps, it was a fitting sendoff after all. A premiership forged in hypocrisy and deceit ending as it began. The only applause on offer the hypocritical cheers of those who had finished him off.
Only in the Tory party do you find that level of good-mannered treachery and deceit. There are many on the government benches dreading the prospect of further interventions from The Convict. Not least the leadership contenders.
A week ago Johnson had hinted he might not turn up for his last PMQs. Despite the veneer of applause, he’s probably now wishing he hadn’t bothered. But he just couldn’t resist the lure of one last sniff of the greasepaint. The lights, the cameras, the action.
The only way he knew he was truly alive was the adrenaline. It was the only measure of self-validation he could muster. And he couldn’t resist one last chance to turn back time. To bend reality to his will. Even now his denial is total. He simply cannot accept he has done anything wrong.
The frontbench filled early. Nadine Dorries, Jacob Rees-Mogg and Priti Vacant. The Continuity Boris leadership candidate Liz Truss just looked gormless. Radon Liz. She’s a gas. But she’s inert. So inarticulate she’s condemned to live a life on Mogadon. And for some reason the Tories find that desperately attractive. Over on the backbenches, Rob Roberts sat by himself. Even the Tory sex pests didn’t want to miss The Convict’s last day in office.
Lindsay Hoyle opened by reminding the Commons that it was customary on these occasions to try to find something nice to say about the outgoing prime minister. So he was going to start by saying The Convict had managed not to die during the pandemic so he was going to pay tribute to that. A big thankyou for living! It felt very like the boss class giving a leaving speech for a member of staff no one much liked.
The feeling was echoed in the first question from Labour’s Kim Leadbeater, who wondered if Johnson had got round to reflecting on why the public’s trust in politicians was at an all-time low. The Tory MPs got very antsy at this and started heckling. They didn’t want Labour trashing Boris’s record. Only they were allowed to do that. It was lese-majesty for anyone else to join in. Telling the truth was terribly bad form on these occasions. Besides, didn’t she know The Convict was incapable of self-reflection. He was just a morass of basic instincts.
Keir Starmer did a little better by wishing Johnson and Carrie all the best for whatever they did next. Peeling off the gold wallpaper, not writing the Shakespeare book, getting Lord Brownlow to pay the parking tickets – that sort of thing. Johnson made no effort to even try to respond graciously. Instead, he called Starmer out for being a human bollard. You can rely on him to live down to any occasion.
The Labour leader then allowed himself one last indulgence. He’d be almost sorry to see Johnson go were it not quite likely he would have Radon Liz to face at PMQs. That really would be like taking candy from a baby. Would The Convict care to speculate on why the leadership contenders had pulled out of the TV debates after the public had concluded they were all useless? Or why they all seemed to hate each other? Or why none of them seemed to have a good word to say about his government? Even though they had been in it.
There was a pause. And then a shrug. Actually, he didn’t really give a shit about the leadership contest. He was too busy having fun. And plotting his comeback. It would be someone else’s job to worry about inflation, energy prices, the cost of living crisis and the collapse of public services.
He just wanted to be allowed one last rant. I won an election, he said. You suspect he watches highlights of that campaign most nights. And he’d got Brexit done. It was just a shame that it needed redoing as he’d lied about it first time round. That was it. What passed for three years’ work. What a legacy.
The longer he spoke, the more he damned himself with faint praise. The so-called orator almost lost for words. You couldn’t miss the pathos. He left the chamber with only the echoes to keep him company.
Shortly after 4pm, Graham Brady announced the results of the final round of voting. Rish! and Radon Liz were through to the party members’ vote. Several Tory MPs looked physically sick. Their party had voted to eat itself. To be a public laughing stock.
All the polling suggested that Radon was the firm favourite. And for reasons best-known to themselves, the Tories were going to choose someone who was technically brain dead. Adrift from reality. Who couldn’t even read an autocue. Who only had two randomised expressions. Dim. And very dim.
It was a bleak day for the people of the UK, who would find themselves with a prime minister just as incapable of running the country as The Convict. Only marginally less likely to lie about it.
But on the upside, it was not such a bad day for sketch writers. So not all bad then. At least we can have a laugh as we die.
