The foreign secretary looks to the London congestion charge to fix Brexit’s knottiest problem
The writing has been on the wall for some time. All that Boris Johnson has ever wanted has been to be loved. More than that. Adored. Worshipped. By as many people as possible. And for a while he felt the love, his narcissism fed by the laughter at his jokes, the respect for his classical allusions and the amusement at his zip-wire antics. As the crowds grew, so did his need. Filling his inner emptiness became his life’s work.
Then it all began to fall apart. He’d never expected to be on the winning side of the referendum and was horrified to find that many people both held him responsible for Brexit and expected him to come up with a solution to it. He tried carrying on as before, but the end-of-the-pier showman schtick wore thin. He told himself it didn’t matter that people were laughing at him, not with him. After all, any laughter had to be better than none.
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