“BIFF! POW! SOCKO!” Boris Johnson’s punchy new memoir went on sale on Thursday. At over 700 pages long, it lands with a satisfying “thud” (or, to use a Borisism, a “THUDDEROO”) on the desk. And it is in many ways vintage Boris. It is rich in classical allusion (leaping onto a bus reminds him of Athena mounting Diomedes’s chariot); in puns (he claims to be able to tell his “SARS from his Ebola”); and, of course, in words such as “BIFF!”, “POW!” and, alas, “SOCKO!”.
But in another way it is entirely unexpected. Because it is really not very good at all. Far too much of it reads less like the work of a statesman than a schoolboy. This makes it worse than merely unamusing. It feels, for a former prime minister, embarrassingly inappropriate. David Cameron is a “girly swot”; a tricky moment is the “stickiest wicket”; he likens himself to “Evel Knievel”; and a chapter on international relations is titled “Gøing Gløbal”. Gød help us.
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