The mop haired, Latin-quoting finagler presently orchestrating the flailing death throes of ye olde British Empire from No 10 Downing Street has rubbed along nicely, thank you very much, on a political agenda pretty much based on panem et circenses. For us non Etonians who may not have a working knowledge of Latin, this is a system of governance based on fobbing off the populace with bread and circuses. Or, in translation: Brexit and high jinks.
His government has embodied the finer points of a travelling circus prone to high-wire drama. Remember when Bojo got stuck midway on the zip-wire during an act he'd agreed to take part in for the opening ceremony for the 2012 Olympic Games held in London? How we all laughed.
The combination of his girth and perhaps the friction created by his hair caused him to get trapped midway on his descent. There he found himself, looking dishevelled and slightly shamefaced but totally brazening it out — his habitual posture. Trussed up like a little piggy in a harness, ignominiously waiting for the wind to blow, or something to give, so he could get into a more comfortable position, ideally back on terra firma — that is, the ground. How metaphorical of Boris. Now he finds himself teetering on the precipice of no confidence.
It would be fitting for Boris, the class clown with a tenuous grip on the truth, to be brought down to earth by a series of unfortunate parties. Obviously these aren't parties as we used to know them. Thirty people is hardly a festivity when you're the pontifex maximus of the singular nation formerly known as an imperium. But needs must — Covid made everyone a little covert.
Lord knows we South Africans are familiar with the stealthy art of bootlegging. So there's something comforting in imagining the staff of No 10 smuggling bottles past the cops and into the specially ordered office bar fridge for some late night lubricating. Governing can be so dry. Especially in a pandemic.
Also there was the cake. In this instance, “let them eat cake” was only for the team, the inner circle, and the beamish birthday boy who had the cake sprung on him. Oh frabjous day! It wasn’t like they ordered in a naked lass to burst forth from inside said cake and give a rollicking rendition of Gaudeamus igitur, iuvenes dum sumus.
Or, in translation, “Let us celebrate, for we are young and powerful and have an interior designer on call, eating the aforementioned cake, and spending covert donors' money on our apartment like we expect to be living there for a second term, so enough with this dodgy wallpaper.”
I mean, if you plebs knew your Latin, you'd know that there are different strokes for different folks, or as the Oxford blues rowing team would have it when they collect their winning medals: Possunt quia posse videntur. That is, “They can, because they think they can”.
