The Secret Diary of Boris Johnson Aged 13¼

During Latin this AM, our teacher Mr Beesley - he of the confetti dandruff and bodily odours - demanded that I give a brief talk on Catullus. Apparently I'd volunteered to do so last week, then forgotten about it entirely. Well, dearest D, I don't mind telling you that the Johnson brain was mightily flummoxed. Without the faintest clue what I was about to say, I rose to my feet. "Um, gosh, yes, Catullus," I began. "What can one say about Catullus? Well, I have always strived to keep my feelings on Catullus a secret. But now I shall have to let the Cat-ullus out of the bag." "Yes, yes, very good, Johnson," said Mr Beesley, "but you're meant to be telling us about his poetry". "Well, um, quite," I shot back. "Knowing, as I do, so much about Catullus - and, indeed, his poetry! - it's tough to know where to begin. Perhaps, then, I should start with the basics: Catullus was a Roman. As such, he had a roman head, roman shoulders and, of course, roman hands. Yes, that poet's hands would roam all over the place. He was the most notorious bottom-pincher in the whole republic!" Yet more laughter! Sometimes I wonder whether I should be a comedian when I grow up, rather than Prime Minister. Then again, why not BOTH?