A blast of Boris magic fails to rub off on assistant Rishi McGee

As Brian Blessed might put it: “Johnson’s aliiive!” Flying back to Britain as fast as Tui could carry him, Boris Johnson delivered a last-minute, final hour endorsement of Rishi Sunak. Let’s call it “Operation Save Little Dog”.

Seeking to squeeze that pesky Reform vote to bolster the Tories, he slammed Nigel’s party as “Kremlin crawlers” - “shame on them!” - and warned that a vote for Farage is a vote for Keir. Or, to put it more Borisly: “Don’t let the Putinistas deliver the Corbynistas!”

He’s been sorely missed. When Boris was in charge, I never had to write a sketch. I just transcribed.

The scene of this passionate reunion? The National Army Museum in Chelsea - a marginal seat now, believe it or not - and the kind of crowd Rishi probably feels most at home with. Posh girls; rich chaps; and a clutch of faithful cabinet ministers. “No women MPs,” observed a reporter. “Well, one if you include Jeremy Hunt,” said another. All told, the audience was around 400 strong including bodyguards.

Above us, hung a helicopter. In front of us, a portrait of Gurkhas fighting uphill to keep a part of Afghanistan British. My chin was wobbling before the music began.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Michael Gove!”

The Govester told us he would be “fighting” for every last vote against the “Corbyn-hugging, tax raising” Keir Starmer - setting an apocalyptic tone that Boris ran a minute mile with. The former prime minister looked more like himself than ever, his hair so wild it looked animate; the audience, cheering him on as if, dare I say, they wished HE was still PM.

We’re all up after Keir’s bed time, he joked. There was a metaphor about parrots; a vision of a Left-wing majority “pregnant with horrors”. BoJo was almost carried off over people’s heads.

When Rishi entered the room, he almost crawled between their knees. The comparison in charisma and height is sadly inescapable. When Boris displays his magic, it never rubs off on the other people on stage. They just end up looking like his glamorous assistant.

For Rishi McGee, this was very clearly a swan song. “Isn’t it great to have our Conservative family united,” he asked, having forgotten to send an invite to dotty aunt Liz. Where was Nadine? Or Suella? Dave Cameron was present, wearing no tie like he’s too cool for school; but what about Rory or Anna Soubry or any of the Leavers/Remainers who have bolted the party in the last few years? The Tories are one of those families that pretends certain relatives don’t exist. “Disconnection”, the Scientologists call it.

“We have 48 hours to save Britain” the PM said. Labour will tax; it doesn’t know what a woman is; you’ll have illegals out on the streets. And finally, following a nod to his tough years in the pharmacy, he claimed that “my story would not be possible in any other country.”

If he means the son of immigrants going from rags to riches, America would disagree. If he means being the PM of a mad government of amusing eccentrics who have blustered from one crisis to another with an air of privilege that would shock the Hapsburgs - then, by golly, he’s right!