Just before the beginning of the trial, one MP was worrying: “I hope they don’t fuck it up.” He was not alone in being nervous that the privileges committee would make a mess of its interrogation of Boris Johnson and give the greased piglet hope of escape from being turned into spit roast. So the first thing to say is that the seven MPs on the committee did a professional job with a systematic and forensic inquisition. You will have been disappointed if you expected them to get him blubbing that he lied, lied and lied again about Partygate. But if you anticipated a confession of his sins, then you are clearly not acquainted with the character of the accused.
It was a familiar performance from him, a whirlpool of evasive waffle, obfuscation and misdirection. He’d remembered to get his hair cut, but occasionally forgot not to wig out in the dock. “This is nonsense, I mean complete nonsense!” he blustered at one line of questioning he didn’t care for. “The famous union jack cake remained in its Tupperware box,” he remarked, rather pathetically, when grilled about the birthday party in the cabinet room for which he received a police fine.
