Boris Johnson thinks he’s a Winston

A Churchill one of course, not the Rotten Tomato actor chappy.

I came to this conclusion after hearing his bravado Brexit bashing, save the nation speech, from the back benches yesterday. He’s done all the heroic stance bit thing of resigning from the Cabinet and slumming it out in the wings of the House, which I expect is the nearest he’ll ever get to trench warfare as our man from Woodstock did.

Next, he’ll be swanning off to Marrakesh with palette, cravat and brushes. Fobbing us off with some artistic and latent sensibility pretenses. God, I can even see that fat cigar looming.

Sorry, but I’m not a Boris fan man. His remarkable verbal laxity as Foreign Secretary made him about as politic a choice for PM as putting Mr Trump on the UN Security Council. It would just be absurd and calamitous, probably endangering world peace, either by a backfiring Boris prank or by Donald failing to get on the right side of a double negative instruction with his veto. However, I do still believe our deluded man thinks he’s up for the job and this is worrying. Indeed with respect to both men.

In terms of moral fibre, if Sir Winston Spencer- Churchill was say Bran Flakes then these guys are surely Sugar Puffs.

On an entirely different note, I see they are well into building the new Music School in St Andrews, which will lie adjacent to the Bute Medical building. Now I do hope they will name it the Thea Musgrave building because she is Scottish and sounds quite a great and grand dame ( I heard her on Desert Island discs last week). Now the point of naming it after her, albeit she’s a major composer, is that she was once a medical student. However a lapsed one, as her love of music overcame her desire to dissect frogs (her words). She would spend most of her time in the Music School which was also next door to her medical school (Edinburgh I think?).

Now on a complete tangent altogether. I had an uncanny and interesting time last week and the main theme seemed to be a French one (not frogs)

On Monday I was walking back from town and I spotted this lady in the car park, who I thought was the French lady that I play cricket with (yes cricket), but it turned out not to be. Anyway, I swear that I walked fifty yards, turned the corner and there she was walking towards me.

Next on Tuesday, I heard Georgia Mann-Smith play some lovely Charles Trenet (I think) on Radio 3 breakfast and it reminded me of that lovely poetic ‘En September …’ lyric which I shared with Georgia, who responded and enthused about the romantic nature of the French language. Which it manifestly is. Besides, which other nation could make a culinary dish out of a frog and make it sound nice.

And then, on Tuesday evening, I was in Marks and came face to face with Margaret Anne-Hutton, who I haven’t seen or spoken to in 38 years since we were first year students at St Andrews. She is now Professor of French nonetheless..

She asked what I was doing and I couldn’t quite tell her that I’d probably just secured a job in the coffee kiosk down at the Bus Station.

Now I think the French have a good expression for this sort of thing.

Ooh la la.





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