Liz suggests

Email registration

Free weekly email update

Great products and special offers for Spectator readers

Click here for great value reader offers and events

Click here for the latest Spectator Wine Offers

Status Anxiety

Toby Young

Wednesday, 30th April 2008

Boris has played me like a violin twice in my life — even appealing to my conscience

At the time of writing, the outcome of the London Mayoral election is still unknown, but I am rooting for Boris, obviously. Doubts have been raised about his ability to run a city like London, but he possesses at least one essential attribute of a great leader: he is a fine judge of men.

I discovered this in 1985 when we were both undergraduates at Oxford. I was in my second year and, by some miracle, I had managed to secure the editorship of a magazine called Tributary that was modelled on Private Eye. Trib has long been consigned to the dustbin of history, but back then it was one of the better-known of the student publications and Boris decided it would make a good feather in his cap.

He was too grand to approach me directly so he sent along an emissary in the form of Darius Guppy. Darius subsequently found fame as a convicted fraudster, but back then he was one of the two or three most glamorous members of the university on account of the fact that he ran the Piers Gaveston Society. Named after Edward II’s gay lover, the Gaveston held termly dinners at which the members dressed up as women. Its annual debauch was renowned for being the most decadent party of its day and usually ended with a full-blown orgy. (‘Dress: Roman Camp’ read one invitation.)

Darius had a simple proposition to put to me: hand over the editorship to Boris and I’ll make you a member of the Gaveston. If I had been a more high-minded undergraduate, I would have been scandalised by such a blatant bribe, but Boris had the measure of his man. I practically fell at Darius’s feet in my eagerness to accept his proposal. Boris had correctly weighed me up as an unprincipled social climber who would do anything to shimmy up the greasy pole.

Fast-forward 20 years and, once again, Boris played me like a violin. This was in the summer of 2005 when the sex farce about The Spectator I had written with Lloyd Evans was playing at the King’s Head. Boris was the main character in Who’s the Daddy? and before it opened Lloyd and I thought there was a good chance we would be sacked. After all, not many Fleet Street editors would stand idly by if two members of their staff sent them up on the London stage.

1 | 2 Next page