Former Attorney General Dominic Grieve called Our Dear Prime Minister a Vacuum of Integrity on the radio. Brilliant. I can’t beat that one.
We’ve had a go though. There’ve been a few attempts at Prime Ministerial nicknames in my household since the Conservative and Unionist party lost their marbles and elected him nearly two years ago.
The obvious starter was Boris The Clown. That was the character he played well as London Mayor, a bumbling cuddly likeable thing to differentiate himself from the serious competitors. It was of course just an act. He dispensed with it as PM, trying to pretend to be serious. His incomparable incompetence can make that less than obvious though.
Next up were some initials: TDJ for Trouser-Down Johnson fits his ladies’ man reputation. That his brains are between his legs mightn’t differentiate him much from half of humanity – indeed the French seem to expect it of their leaders, but that he’s a philandering cheater should be considered on a PM’s CV. Supporting his unspecified number of children must be a burden however. You can understand why he’d get into hock over home redecoration.
CFM or Cummings Front-Man was one of my favourites. Johnson clearly has no interest in policy. He’s a populist, only interested in being in power for the ego-trip, and will make any necessary noises to be there. Giving a thought to what he should do there isn’t in his ken, he needed someone else to look after that tedium.
Brexit was a godsend. Don’t think he had any considered objection to the EU; sure he lambasted it regularly in his Daily Torygraph column, but that’s only because xenophobic tub-thumping excites people, and selling column inches paid his wages (and ego). Then along came the Brexit referendum and he saw a cause without a leader. That was a career-step not to be missed. With that came a nasty nasty but proven very effective set of brains, Dominic Cummings. He had ideas, but was too loathsome to ever get himself elected. What a match! From then on Cummings did all the thinking. What a shame such a sweet pair had to end, and with it a nickname.
I used to always call him The Prince. Heard him speeching on the radio one day, and all I could think of was Hugh Laurie as Prince Regent in Blackadder III.
“Phwoar Phwoar, I say! Our NHS and my trousers! By golly, now there’s a combination you know – what?”
The problem was people thought I was comparing the man to the Machiavelli work. Conniving and backstabbing no doubt. But he’s not in that league.
You’ll notice I usually refer to Honest Boris. The only person I know who’s dealt with him described him as a lying charlatan who thinks his ability to get women into bed somehow qualifies him to run a country. The evidence doesn’t say otherwise. His only glancing contacts with the truth give him the air of the used car salesman:
“A World-Beating vehicle if I do say so myself, Sir”
A Del Boy likeable rogue perhaps?
“You know it makes sense to Get Brexit Done!”
A Roald Dahl’s Mr Wormwood, who had to quit the country ahead of the law, might be better. There was a happy ending after that.
And the lies are enormous, and just keep coming. It’s like listening to Trump, but played by a Monty Python British Army officer.
You might see all the above in my scribblings. And I have a new one now.