In his only novel,
Seventy-Two Virgins, published in 2004,
Boris Johnson uses a strange word. The hero, like Johnson himself at the
time, is a backbench Conservative member of the House of Commons. Roger
Barlow is, indeed, a somewhat unflattering self-portrait—he bicycles to
Westminster, he is unfaithful to his wife, he is flippantly racist and
politically opportunistic, and he is famously disheveled:
In
the fond imagination of one Commons secretary who crossed his path he
had the air of a man who had just burst through a hedge after running
through a garden having climbed down a drainpipe on being surprised in
the wrong marital bed.1
Barlow, throughout the novel, is in constant fear that his political career is about to be..
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