Boris’s final days in No. 10

‘So what did he say?’ I asked the ministerial friend who went to tell Boris last week he had to resign. ‘Well, he told me a long story about a relative of his who got caught up in a planning dispute, barricaded himself inside his house and the police had to come in force to drag him out. I think it means he’s not going quietly.’ At one level, politics is unpredictable; but enduring political rules apply. Boris told me years ago that while he wasn’t a team player, he could be a good team leader. For all his infectious optimism, it turns out that’s not possible.

Downing Street will feel like being at a wake. Hushed voices. No one wanting to upset the family. Mourning the power that has recently departed. Perhaps a drink or two. I remember that weird fortnight when David Cameron had resigned but not gone. At one point a room on the first floor filled up with dozens of strange objects – an engraved hunting horn; a palm tree made of gold; a book signed by JFK. Gifts to the prime minister from six years of G20 summits and state visits. Like the conveyor belt in the Generation Game, David had to pick the ones he wanted to take with him – and pay for them out of his own pocket, since they were government property. The days were spent taking commiseration calls from foreign leaders, fending off supplicants for the resignation honours – and, with our old homes rented out, working out where on earth we were going to live. I ended up at my parents’ house. That’s politics: No. 11 one day; the spare room the next. On arrival, there were lots of police with machine-guns guarding the street.