Boris Johnson, the man always guaranteed to make a bad situation worse, heroically rose to the occasion.
The Salisbury poisoning was deffo Russian, he announces, and the man from Porton Down, he says yes. The bloke from the germ factory promptly said uh, no. We know what it is, but we don’t know where it came from. It’s like looking at an unwrapped M&S prawn sarnie. It’s one of Markie’s finest, but from which store?
Dear Boris. I sometimes wonder why Theresa keeps him there, rumbling about the globe, being blokey, getting into scrapes like the lovable rogue he is.
Whether it’s landing a British woman in an Iranian jail in even deeper trouble, reciting faintly racist poetry in a Myanmar temple or ticking off the Chinese for saying they invented table tennis, gosh, that lad is just like a travelling calamity.
Does Theresa ever just give a gentle chuckle, roll her eyes and say: “Oh Boris, whatever next, you little rascal?”
No, of course not. Theresa doesn’t do chuckling. She probably gazes balefully upon him, dimly aware that he makes her look good by comparison.
Although I’ll wager there are times when she wonders if she can get a hold of one of them there deadly spy brollies…