The battle of Islington

We all love a foppy-haired, well spoken, aristocratic gent. In fact, in these days of almost hypnotic compliance with political correctness it could be about the only guilt-free moment of national pride we have left.

Normally these all-round good chaps are found hanging about in muddy fields, wearing bespoke tailored tweed, accompanied by well-groomed, enthusiastic Labradors with animated ears and tongue (the dog, not the aristocrat). Which it is why should be worrying to think one could soon be ruling the Manor of London.

In many respects Boris Johnson has many of the personality traits of the existing Mayor. Both have an uncanny ability to put not only their foot, but in many cases their entire lower legs into their mouths. Both seem to not only long for but genuinely believe they live in an age where everyone rides a bicycle and all form of motorised vehicles are banished outside an exclusion zone ending somewhere near Doncaster. Both have had a slightly wonky career in politics, and have a love-hate relationship with the media. So regardless of who wins, it’ll be business as usual in the small island-living community of Londonia.

There’s something odd about the idea of a Ken and a Boris battling it out for the hearts of Londoners. Whilst the name ‘Ken’ seems to conjure the image of a tall, thin grey-haired gent who spends days in his shed crafting things out of wood (anti-car congestion zone barriers, probably) and eating Worthers Originals, I’m struggling to think of a good ‘Boris’. There’s the lovable rogue Yeltsin, a tennis player of minor note, and an opera and that’s about it.

Of course only Londoners get to vote and there are 10 million people living in London, but on any given day this is doubled by tourists, visitors and workers priced out of trendy office-conversion apartments and I think they should get a say too. Big Brother’s viewing figures are down so why not have a phone vote for the country on who should be mayor? We could all sit back and watch as the future of London unfolds under the country’s chosen candidate. There’ll be no eviction votes, of course, but we could have a diary room for Ken to talk about his hatred of motorists and the combustion engine, or Boris could come in a stutter about the beastly queue on the Tube and try not to mention the Liverpudlian he saw on there reading The Star.

The best part of this plan? London becomes a massive theme park. You can actually visit the Big Brother House of Boris or Ken. London is our nation’s capital, whether you prefer to think your own province is independent or not, and as such we all own a stake in it. Whilst we might not get a vote because of our postcode, we can all influence the phone-vote by convincing our Loft-apartment-dwelling brethren who they should be voting for.