Crikey. What a day! I haven’t work so hard since the referendum campaign. Actually, that was a darn sight easier. I didn’t have to remember anything. They just pushed me on stage and I made stuff up. But this? There’s lines to learn. Places to stand. Cues to remember. It’s all a bit much, quite frankly. Who’s idea was this anyway.
*Boris paces back and forth in front of a mirror* Only a week to go now, old boy, before we take Doncaster by storm like Pericles’ shook Athens! Then onto Sheffield, Steel City! You can do it. One last push. Time to charge at this beast like you’re rugby tackling a small child to the ground. Onwards, Bozzer!
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My friends, last night everyone in Team Boris watched me, Boris, talk about myself (Boris) on a really very large cinema screen. If I say so myself, which I do, it was bloody marvellous. Even David “Call me Dave” Cameron had to admit I looked really quite splendid. The thing about watching oneself on a really very large cinema screen is that one gets to focus on all the things that make you, you. And Mr Burchhardt, who really is coming on as an actor, I have to say, managed to fill that really very large cinema screen with an awful lot of Me. And I can only think that is a very good thing. Keep up the good work, David! (Burchhardt, not Cameron.)
It all got a bit much for Team Boris last night. Channelling all that potent Bozzer energy almost polished off the young pretender, David Burchhardt. But they were soon back on their feet, finding time to film a trailer, sing like coked-up choir boys, and rehearse a scene where I metamorhphose from Boris into Super Mayor! Kapow! Please, call me Captain Boris.
Yes, my friends, Team Bozzer know the great truths of our classical forebears. Did Themistocles quake at the overwhelming Persian force at Thermopylae? Did Churchill pack it all in during our darkest hour? Did I throw in the towel after my reckless referendum gamble horribly backfired? Yes. Yes, I did. But as soon as I got that call from Teresa making me Foreign Sec, I was back on my feet. Bozzer Bozzer Bozzer! At one point last night, Team Boris appeared to be dancing round in some sort of fairy ring. Then it become unmentionably apparent just what sort of ring it was! Truly, my friends, if I knew the sordid things I got up to at Eton would ever see the light of day, I would have strived to make them more theatrical. As it is, all this “playwright”, Mr Peacock, has to offer is a decomposing pile of innuendic protoplasm. Poor show. Literally.
In other news, Michael “the snake” Govey whipped up a storm last night, inspiring the people - well, Kyle, the “director” - with the passion of Brexit! On he struts, gospel-gowned, hands raised high, preaching the joys of Leave. It’s quite the act. You could almost believe he believed it. Just like I believed he was a decent fellow and not a venomous little toad. Still, we live and learn. Except for Govey. Now I’ve got some powerful exotic friends at the Foreign Office, he might just find his tea comes with extra radiation. Milk, Govey? Sugar? How about polonium…? Cripes, it's all jolly exciting, watching Team Boris hard at work portraying yours truly. Though, I must say, I think that David chap needs to watch himself. I shan't repeat what he said I said, because even though I did say it, it's one thing for a fellow to say something, entirely another for him to have to watch another chap pretending to be him, saying exactly what he did say. If he isn't careful, Mr Burchhardt (ridiculous name) might get a visit from some friends of my friend, Darius.
Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes, the show. It's got some cracking songs in, especially that one about "Me and My Johnson". Never let it be said old Bozza can't take a joke. Only one mind - and frankly there's quite a few in this piece of "theatre". In my day, theatre was Shakespeare. Histories! Tragedies! Romances! I trod the boards, my friends, in my school days. A born performer, they said, even if I couldn't remember the lines. Fortunately, this lot don't seem to be having that problem. Today they were working on a song called "Posh Lads!" which, in its stereotypical and on-the-nose depiction of privilege and entitlement, borders on the offensive. Juvenal it ain't! In fact, juvenile would be closer to the mark. Still, all publicity is good publicity. Right, if you'll excuse me, I've a Telegraph column to dash off. I'm trying to get my hourly rate up to £17,000. Cheerio. |
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Here, Boris shares his thoughts on the rehearsal process. Archives
December 2016
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