HAving has heroically launched all forms of social media so far, has decided, at the end of the day, at the cave. Why change of heart? Carrie Johnsons Instagram Feed, that's why. Carrie and Boris, they just seem to have a big life, right? These are all picnics, terraces, beach barbecues and a myriad of other outdoor catering forms. They always snuggle up each other and their children with a towing head, laughing and smiling and dressing up and playing with massive cuddly balloons and toys. It's so sunny, so carefree, so healthy, so dear!
If you go to Instagram, you lose weight, as Boris seems to have done it this summer, and you go on vacation all the time, and your children are adorable, and you have pots of money And beautiful tonic gay friends, and all your clothes (except Boris Dolphin shorts) are good taste and chic and made of natural fibers, so I want a game. We all do it, right? This is why so many other people are also on Instagram, living in the same fun, exciting, exotic, colorful way (while sometimes all bad humor lives and authentically in black and white).
And don't say that I got my logic back. Because if you put your whole children's clothes, the choice of bridge flesh, hairstyle, bikini, the brand of sunglasses, facial hair, friends, what do you have for pudding for public approval, you have a great incitement to improve your game, you didn't? When you live a largely private, offline and offline life, like me like most people you don't make the effort, right? You are just buzzing at random, with your shit turned sewing, your podgy friends and your cheese sandwich for dinner, all the maittely useless mess.
Well, everything that will change. I'm lucky. By trying to make my life more like the Johnsons, I had one step ahead. Like me, Boris is also 61 years old, just six more weeks. In many ways, our lives have followed similar trajectories. We both played in the first row of the fray. Our dads were both members of the European Parliament. Were both journalists, in a kind. We both make ourselves adorable thugs (ISH) unpacking and we were once big, then I became thinner and now, if his last beach snap is a guide, it is the same. I have proven many years ago in which I could not trust to manage something effectively and that Boris, although more recently, proved that he could not either.
And unlike most people on Instagram, Boris has not undergone cosmetic surgery, as far as I know, so I will not have to bother to have a facelift. In short, there are many existing similarities with which to work with.
And yet also, let's be frank, I have a long way to go too. The biggest difference is income. When Boris delivers a speech, he charged a quarter of a million pounds. When I give a speech, it is a favor to a friend, with a precisely zero payment. Last year, I gave a conference to collect funds for the roof of the church in Kingsdown, Kent, where we have a vacation chalet. The result of this financial gap is that Boris can afford to go to Greece and Italy all the time, while I am especially stuck on Hackney Bus 388 in London Bridge. Maybe he could give me money to balance things.
However, money is not everything. Many people on social networks lead a glamorous life while probably earning less than me.
Children, however, is another shortfall and a tricky. I think you need a minimum of four children to enter the Instagram paradise from the upper middle class, right? Boris A, I think, nine, the four youngest all in good place, although faceless, on their social mothers. My derisory two descendants are adults and, although still photogenic, are now lacking in the kindness of toddlers. I will have to hire a little more small ones. The girls will have to wear floating dresses that look home but cost a fortune. Boys must have an urgent need for a haircut and have a second name from Poncey referring to a hero of Greek mythology.
A dog too, you will need a dog. Something medium-sized, fully non-trained and terrestrial Priapic like Dilyn, the incontinent rapist Jack Russell-Cross once residing in Downing Street. My new kittens are super throat, but cannot be invoked to slide around the carpet and try to kiss everything.
What else? Aperol Spriz, I have to enter it. Big Time. At sunset. And paddleboarding, headgear, hindrances, baskets, flower dresses, sophisticated wallpaper, many ancient bikes unnecessarily on which work. I will also need a 17th century manor in the Oxfordshire, with land, in the background for the rare occasions that I am not in Greece.
Finally and above all, I will have to abandon the titles of consciousness, the remaining modesty and humility which cling to this advanced stage. Oh, and I'm going to need my wife to have a personality transplant and kiss shameless public narcissism. So much to do.