29 October 2022
‘...as no candidate received an overall majority in the first round of voting, Mr Gove is eliminated and we go into the instant runoff.’
Boris Johnson had déjà vu. As he looked around the glitzy main hall of Thatcher House - which he’d proudly opened as the first permanent HQ of the Conservative Party half a decade ago - he tried to avoid catching the eye of anyone he knew. This was, of course, impossible - he was Boris fucking Johnson, he knew everyone. The returning officer continued.
‘All Conservative Party members watching - and there should be an alert now on the telephones of those of you not able to join us live - will be presented with the top two candidates, who, I will repeat, are Mr Boris Johnson and Mr Sebastian Coe. You now have 5 minutes to vote using your handset or a computer. Voting starts... now.’
As the young Asian chap - in a great suit, Boris thought - stepped away from the microphone and shook Michael’s hand in commiserations, Boris allowed his eyes to roam the crowd once again.
They’d all turned out. Not just the baying hounds of the press pack, who’d hailed him as ‘the 21st century Churchill’ not four months ago, but the party too. Some of them, still loyal, had his affection. Boles was visibly distressed and seemed to be trying to work out how to vote twice on his phone. Thank God that was impossible, Boris thought, otherwise they’d never get to introduce it for General Elections.
There stood Priti, eyes down as ever. He never got a concrete assertion from her that he had her support. Yes, she’d want the top job some day. No doubt about it. Oh well, he thought, good luck to her.
Next to her stood Jo. Thankfully, the little troublemaker hadn’t decided to ‘go Miliband’ on him, and had proved an able campaign manager. He’d probably give Patel some competition when Coe was inevitably trounced by 'Stella The Sell-Out' in 2027.
Who else was there? Ah, no - was it him? Yes. There stood George, sporting a spectacularly misjudged goatee and an ‘I’m for Michael’ badge that he was now trying to cover with his hand when he saw Boris looking over. The day he’d walked out had been when Boris had realised he’d probably lost it.
Still, what a journey. How like the Conservative Party to use the still publicly popular Boris to win a (reduced) majority, then bring the knives out after the summer recess. Those who lived by the long knife, died by the long knife, he supposed to himself.
He was still stood, completely isolated on the stage, Coe a few feet to his left. Michael had been escorted back to his seat, where plenty of supporters were now clapping him on the back. Where would most of his second preferences go? Boris sighed and scolded himself for even asking. The Asian fellow had stepped back up to the mic. Boris braced himself and put on his best showman’s grin.
What would he do next? He’d find something. David hadn’t made a bad go of it at the UN, though quite how the Scottish cyclops had ended up as Secretary-General would always be beyond him. Television? Wilson had tried to present a disastrous talk show after his resignation, but Boris would be unencumbered by Alzheimers and therefore perhaps more suitable. Maybe HIGNFY would want a permanent host again. And there was always writing.
Yes, he thought to himself, this was probably enough of politics for him. He’d ended the Union, guided the country through its biggest shift since the end of the Empire, overseen a coronation (and overshadowed the King ever since), transformed the way parliament worked (whatever Coe and Michael promised about repealing the Act) and, his proudest achievement, been elected three times in elections that had more than 87% turnout. His supporters said he'd made politics popular again. His critics said he'd turned it into a populist game. However you looked at it, that was something worth telling the grandkids about. Yes, he’d probably look into the Chiltern Hundreds in the morning.
Everybody did a countdown as the voting closed. He was reminded of Eurovision - which, he recalled, was his inspiration for drawing up this particular method. He didn’t even take in the numbers when the returning officer spoke, but the reactions of everyone made it obvious that inevitable was, indeed, inevitable. Grinning from ear to ear, Boris stepped forward and waved to the crowd, while Coe approached him with an outstretched hand.
‘There’ll never be anyone like you again, Boris, I hope you know that. I really don’t want you to hold this against me,’ he said as they shook, before adding, ‘you’re an impossible act to follow.’
Boris smiled.
‘I’m not a hypocrite, old man. Now, you get up there and make the worst speech of your life - but it’ll feel like the best.’
He clapped his successor on the shoulder and put his hands in his pockets. Coe was right. He
was an impossible act to follow. As his mind filled with possibilities, he decided he wouldn’t resign from the parliamentary party just yet. Britain had seen the last of Boris Johnson.
For now.
