In many ways I feel desperately sorry for Boris Johnson. He may be a vile, vainglorious, selfish steaming pile of horseshit with the principles and morality of a Kremlin hitman, but deep down he must be achingly lonely. Behind the melting mask of Bon moted bonhomie he is friendless.

Oh, there are the hangers on. Those who want to bask in his reflected glory. And those who want to grip his tawdry coat tails for a white knuckled ride to glory. But who trusts him? Who respects him? And who loves him? Who can he ring in the black dog hours of the night to pour out what is left of his soul that is not in hock? I doubt if there is anyone. No man is an island but Boris gets pretty close to it.

He must know that he will never hold high office again. That his leadership dreams are dashed and that the best that he can hope for is for the Daily Telegraph to give him well paid vanity publishing rights. And spew unconscionable bile and poison against Mrs May. For any newspaper to accuse the Prime Minister of being a traitor when she is just doing her best to hold the crumbling fabric of her party and country together is obscene. If the Barclay brothers had an ounce of decency they would throw Chris Evans to the wolves. He makes Paul Dacre look like a shy and retiring Church of England curate.

But back to Boris. What will happen when the laughter stops? When the adulation fades away? When he finally realises that whatever laughter that is left is at him? Already, he is transforming into the Archie Rice of politics going through the motions of his routine, despising his audience and dead behind the eyes. Or will he just turn into the Rector of Stiffkey? A broken man so desperate for public attention that he locked himself in the lions cage until the lion turned on him and mauled him to death. His sad but poignant dying words were, “will I make the last edition?’

David Davis will. He at least behaved with honour, dignity and principle. And Boris? If he does it will be as the man who sacrificed both the Conservative party and the country on the altar of his ambition. In the meantime let him burn in the hellfires of tedium in Uxbridge.