Why do I keep falling for Boris Johnson’s charm?

On Saturday, I was in a public library, waiting for an old guy to finish with the Times. But he seemed to be reading every word of every section, and sort of peering at it frowningly in an annoying way. So I did something I hardly ever do: I picked up the Daily Mail. 

I had forgotten that I might find Boris here. I wondered what I thought of him these days. One is meant to despise or at least disdain him, of course. But I’ve always struggled to.

Oh, I often come very close. I came close the other week, when I read Rory Stewart’s memoir. Politicians should obviously be devoted earnest types, I felt, not semi-charming smoothies like David Cameron, or fully-charming roughies, if that’s a word, like Boris. I winced, slightly, when Stewart told of first meeting Boris: though the older Old Etonian was being briefed on the situation in Afghanistan, he behaved as if they were both in on an enormous joke.