You Wouldn't Trust Boris. Would You?
Boris Johnson as your therapist? That's what the United Kingdom is facing as a result of its Brexit breakdown.
It’s 7pm on a Wednesday evening. You’ve been going through a bit of a crisis recently and need to talk to someone. Luckily, your friend has recommended you a new counsellor - a bit of a “rogue”, in her words, but someone who might be able to shed a fresh perspective on life’s trials and tribulations.
Apprehensive, you approach the door. On a big, gold plaque you see the name “Dr Johnson”, emblazoned boldly on its mahogany backdrop. With a small gulp, you enter the room.
Slouched over a desk is a dishevelled, tired-looking man. His poor posture corrected with a jolt, the man they call BoJo sits up, alert.
“Hello”, says Dr Johnson in a gruff, blustering sort of way. “Take a seat!”
Gesturing towards a spindly wooden chair, Johnson gives you a smile. Yet his eyes are cold. You take the seat without removing your eyes from his gaze.
“What can I help you with, what what?” mumbles the man. You’re already skeptical that this is the person to take you out of your deep depression. Could he be a quack?
You explain your predicament. A bad decision, made three years ago. A period of intense self-reflection. Regret. And now this.
Dr Johnson frowns, his doglike expression becoming a bit more gorilla.
“Well, if you ask meeeee”, growls Johnson, appearing to scramble for something useful to say, “you never made a mistake in the first place. Everything is just fine! Just stick with me and you won’t have to worry about a thing”.
You find this odd. This is the first time you’ve met the man and he’s already claiming to be the one-size-fits-all fixer to your problems. Surely he can’t be trusted?
Johnson gets up, staring out of the window of this fifty-floor office. Far below, on the streets that snake past his skyscraper, a car’s tyre bursts over a forgotten pothole.
Johnson sighs, ambling back to his messy desk, hands in pockets.
You’re still waiting for an answer.
But none comes.
He just keeps staring. A dusty, faded portrait of an old politician stares back at him. It could be Churchill or Silvio Berlusconi. Although it makes a difference to you, it doesn’t seem to matter to him. His eyes glaze over.
Then, slumping down in his seat, Dr Johnson falls asleep. Just like that, he departs the conversation. You’re left alone.
His personal assistant rushes in.
“That’ll be £360, please”, she says with an acid smile.
Hundreds of metres below, another car tyre bursts. The driver curses, but nobody hears.
You sigh. Time to have some words with that friend of yours.