My Dad, Boris Johnson. I am Spartacus.

Boris, Johnson.  Alexander. De pfeffel. Boz. Jojo. Bojo. Dad.

It’s not a word I use lightly. It’s a word I’ve avoided for the last 5,  15, 25 no 35 years. But it’s a word that has found its time. It’s been with me all around the world, flirting with danger, sucking up to secrecy with more than its fair share of mucky mystery but now the cockerel  has come home to find its eggs well and truly scrambled. And to leave a deposit in the locker rooms of the great, good, dazed and unwashed to boot. Dad. 

Why did it take me so long? And why now, this day of all days, have I decided to claim what is rightfully mine and risk everything? Suspicion, ridicule, hatred are all staring at me down the end of a very long barrel. So what’s the point?

Call it pride, call it stupidity, call it mean spirited, call it what you want but you won’t call me away from what has become the final furlong of a very long quest.  To name the one who refused to be named. To name but not to shame. Or even blame. Just to set the record straight for my mother and the others. All of them.

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