It's Friday at 10 Downing Street.

 It's Friday at 10 Downing Street

It's Friday evening at 10 Downing Street. Larry the Cat is still wandering the streets of Westminster with a very circumspect air as if privately suspicious that nobody will understand the frustration he may be feeling at the moment. His owner Boris Johnson and his family are trying to keep a very low profile because the knives are out for Johnson, his erstwhile friends are turning on him and nobody seems to have a great deal of time for him. 

A couple of days ago David Davis, who used to back Johnson to the hilt on most issues of note, stood up and savagely attacked Johnson without resorting to four-letter expletives but vile invective that was designed to hurt his former colleague in the Cabinet. Davis more or less told Johnson to go now before somebody pushes him over the precipice. Johnson may think he's survived the worst of the flak but the bullets are still flying and those slanderous snipes can still be heard in the House of Lords. 

Was this what life was like when the Victorian Whigs met all political opposition with much louder heckling and some pretty blisteringly cutting comments. But this is all-out warfare. Fridays have never seemed so appealing to Boris Johnson if only because the weekend is here and he's safe for the time being at least. His reputation is still intact but for how too long? The persecution complex could be forgiven but then Prime Ministers ought to be conditioned to such character assassination. 

At the beginning of this week Johnson's job was hanging so precariously in the balance that any impartial observer would have come to the conclusion that there would be no point in just hanging around for dear Boris because he's running out of supporters and the damage has been done. But amazingly Johnson is clinging onto his life raft if only because there are no logical replacements and the gig is just a poisoned chalice. Who on earth would want to undertake the harrowing responsibilities of leading your country when everybody wants you out now immediately before the hole gets deeper and deeper? 

So here you are Boris Johnson. You can take it easy since the working week is now over and besides who's going to bother you when the rest of the public are probably embarking on some of the very uproarious, roisterous partying that the Prime Minister was accused of in the first place. This is surely a case of what goes around comes around and, besides, cliches are pointless. Johnson will probably try to wind down with a bottle of red but then he may be haunted by the last time he spilt wine over somebody or something. 

There was the embarrassing episode when Johnson accidentally tipped some red wine over his partner and now wife Carrie's laptop. Since then of course, everything that could have gone so disastrously wrong for the Prime Minister did so. Admittedly, a comprehensive vaccine rollout for Britain may save Johnson both from voluntary resignation or facing himself in the mirror with any pride. Covid 19 remains Johnson's only means of salvation and the sooner Sue Gray's damning report is announced is out of the way the better. Maybe he'll get off with a gentle reprimand and a slap over the knuckles. He'll be warned but then told that under no circumstances should this ever happen again. 

Friday evening then has come to Boris Johnson's rescue and the soul searching has now begun. There will be head burying, anxious ruffling of that famous thatch of blond hair and a good deal of even more introspection. He will probably pace up and down the living room, pulling out his book on Churchill in the hope that it might serve as obvious inspiration. Then he'll stroll over to a desk or table, shuffling through sheaves of paper, sorting through documents and then sighing despairingly because what else he can do?

He'll smile longingly at Carrie, lovingly stroke his dogs and then wonder if it's worth all the hassle and aggravation. He could cut his losses and just quit as soon as possible or he could go to a rugby union match tomorrow in the hope that anonymity will be found in some remote corner of a stand. You feel sure that even a feeble attempt at just getting on with the business in hand will become impossible. What else do you do when the nation wants you to just quit and leave the crazy world of politics once and for all? The penny may drop for Johnson but he may not get the hint. 

Now accusations of blackmail and intimidation have been levelled at Johnson. Some of his reliable comrades are now his traitors. Yesterday Johnson found himself surrounded by gang warfare, bloodthirsty betrayals from his own party and all manner of sneaky skulduggery. Shakespeare would probably have enough material for a mini adaptation of any of his great works on the BBC. This is now beyond satire or mickey taking, the kind of scatological irreverence the Bard would have relished. 

It is at times like this that your mind goes back to the last days of Margaret Thatcher when there was blood, quite literally, all over the 10 Downing Street carpet. Thatcher staggered across a private room, reaching out for the comfort of husband Denis's arms. She then left Downing Street, ducking into the back of a car for the last time, tears flooding her cheeks, ruined forevermore. 

A couple of years ago Theresa May, the second female Prime Minister, who had now inherited the mess left behind her political predecessors, seemingly blundered horrifically. After huffing and puffing, indecision and all manner of delaying tactics over the resolution of Brexit. May, rather like Thatcher, sobbed uncontrollably when she thought the country had lost faith in her as well. She insisted that she loved Britain but that was never going to be good enough. 

But tonight Boris Johnson is at the heart of a monumental crisis. He must have known that a full- blooded rave inside Downing Street the night before Prince Philip's death would never have been greeted with widespread glee. Then there was the small matter of those other boozefests, vigorous jiving and jumping by the filing cabinets and general hip shaking bonhomie. So tactless Boris shamefacedly and bitterly apologised for any inconvenience he may have caused.

Yesterday he was grilled once again for the benefit of the early evening news bulletins and he may just as well have been auditioning for an episode of Emergency Ward 10. Masked completely, Johnson came out with some muffled, half-baked apology and then denied any knowledge about anything nasty or nefarious at all. He then pleaded for more time since the number of Covid 19 fatalities were falling and, by this time next week, those masks will become museum exhibits.

In mitigation, Johnson has been at the helm for quite a long time now and it isn't all gloom and doom. Of course the coronavirus will have to be dealt with for perhaps the rest of our lives. But dear Mr Johnson has negotiated all the pitfalls that he must have known would come his way. We are into the third year of this global pandemic and Johnson does seem to have taken us through all the misery, death and suffering, the estrangement from loved ones and the recovery is more or less complete. So well done Boris Johnson. We won't have a drink on your behalf. We know it's Friday but caution may be the watchword. Enjoy your weekend Prime Minister.