Ah, April: and life burgeons all around! Buds are unfurling. Female frogs swell and turn the same pale yellow as Boris Johnson's hair. I spent much of last week standing by the pond, cogitating on two things: why can I never see the exact moment when the spawn comes out? And what must it be like to have an affair with Boris Johnson? I still haven't worked out the answer to the first question, but after much deep-browed thought, I've made progress with the second. The allure of Boris has been a hotly debated subject around these parts. "Is Boris an Errol Flynn de nos jours?" asked an email message.
"I bet he just tries his luck with every woman he meets and one or two say yes," confided one male friend.
"What on earth do women see in him?" (This from a woman.) "He's such a vain buffoon."
The chorus of anguish has nothing to do with morality. No one is bothered by Boris's track record in extramarital sex (broken promises, abortion and abandonment) - that goes with the territory of politicians' hanky-panky. No, what they can't understand is how he pulls at all.
He's a Conservative, and everyone knows that Conservative love rats are in the great tradition of Cecil Parkinson, Alan Clarke and David Mellor. It's all red boxes, tournedos Rossini and cruel aftershave, dry hands and hot breath, and "my God, you're beautiful. Damn! The Chancellor's paging me" in the back of the official car.
But Boris rides a bike. He talks like Jennings and Darbishire on ketamine and teases his hair into an Easter bonnet. He has no real political power, can't seem to hold down a job and 18 months ago he was made to apologise to the whole of Liverpool. What kind of woman would be attracted to a man like that?
Well, I confess that I'm beginning to see how it works. I have spent the past few days imagining what it would be like if, when Boris cycled through the London traffic, beanie waving like a condom tip and eyes a-sparkle, he was pedalling to an assignation with me. (I'd grown my name by four syllables.)
The Johnsonian approach has its advantages for the busy woman. There'd be no bad temper because he had to park three streets away. No scratching out dates on a visitor permit and hanging round in the hall while he stamped out again. It's just off with the bike clips, fluff up the hair and let passion commence.
He'd de-stress you by reminding you of your school days - not secondary school when you were in love with that greasy rebel type with the smelly coat. Boris is more like a boy you sat next to in infant school when you were cutting snow-crystal shapes out of paper. Remember how pleased you were when he agreed to lend you his coloured pencils? It would be like that.
Great aftercare: he'd have to hang round to do his hair, and you could gossip. It would be afternoon-delight-meets-girls'-night-in. You'd lounge around on pillows talking to him in the mirror and catching a glimpse of your own reflection when he moved off-centre. I pass a veil over the act itself. I will only mention that his sister Rachel has allegedly said all her brothers have anatomical attributes on the same scale as donkeys'. Anyone whose sister gives them that kind of PR clearly knows how to handle women.
So there it is, the secret of Boris's sex appeal. Try him and you get stud, infant sweetheart and flatmate in one, secretly laced with brains and spiked with Tory grandee ruthlessness. Clever Boris. I think it could catch on.
Liane Jones is the author of 'Truth, Dare, Kiss or Promise'. News ReviewReuse content