The Secret Diary of Boris Johnson Aged 13¼

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Tuesday, 20th September, 1977

During Latin this AM, our teacher Mr Beesley - he of the confetti dandruff and bodily odours - demanded that I give a brief talk on Catullus. Apparently I'd volunteered to do so last week, then forgotten about it entirely. Well, dearest D, I don't mind telling you that the Johnson brain was mightily flummoxed. Without the faintest clue what I was about to say, I rose to my feet. "Um, gosh, yes, Catullus," I began. "What can one say about Catullus? Well, I have always strived to keep my feelings on Catullus a secret. But now I shall have to let the Cat-ullus out of the bag." "Yes, yes, very good, Johnson," said Mr Beesley, "but you're meant to be telling us about his poetry". "Well, um, quite," I shot back. "Knowing, as I do, so much about Catullus - and, indeed, his poetry! - it's tough to know where to begin. Perhaps, then, I should start with the basics: Catullus was a Roman. As such, he had a roman head, roman shoulders and, of course, roman hands. Yes, that poet's hands would roam all over the place. He was the most notorious bottom-pincher in the whole republic!" Yet more laughter! Sometimes I wonder whether I should be a comedian when I grow up, rather than Prime Minister. Then again, why not BOTH?

Ended the day by raiding the tuck shop, to replenish my dwindling supply of Curly Wurlies. Checked my mons pubis for hair again just now. Still nothing . . .