As I write, Boris Johnson is in intensive care at St Thomas’ Hospital, battling with coronavirus. For someone with such an unwavering belief in his own destiny, this must be profoundly difficult. He is a man who’s beaten the odds over and over: to become mayor of London in a Labour city, to lead the Leave campaign to victory in the teeth of overwhelming opposition, to become prime minister in spite of all his personal baggage, and then to win the largest Conservative majority since 1987. Here is a man who cannot stare into the jaws of defeat without grabbing hold of victory with both hands. Yet the odds of him triumphing in this case keep narrowing. Of those who’ve caught the virus aged 50 to 59 (Boris is 55), their chances of requiring hospitalisation are only one in ten, and just 12 per cent of that fraction end up in intensive care. A hundred to one against and he’s still drawn the short straw. Once a Covid-19 patient has been admitted to intensive care, their chances of coming out are close to 50-50.
It’s his sense of public duty that has landed him in this hole. People who don’t know him, and even some who do, talk disapprovingly of his arrogance and vaulting ambition. But the man I’ve known for more than 35 years contains multitudes, of which Richard III is only one. Henry V is also in there, one of his better angels. He cannot resist the pull of obligation to his country, the need to be of service. I remember cornering him at a Spectator party shortly after he’d announced his intention to become an MP and asking him why he was bothering with politics when he was so clearly destined for the top in journalism.
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