How the rumour mill ruined Boris Johnson

In a world teeming with gloom, it’s essential to appreciate good irony when it comes along. This summer, Pope Francis sashayed onto a balcony at the Vatican to tell those assembled (plus all the haters) that “gossip is a plague worse than Covid.” He ended his sermon with a plea: “Let’s make a big effort: no gossiping!” The result? At least one-sixth of the world’s population, maybe more, began feverishly speculating as to whom His Holiness was alluding.

A few weeks later, in an instance of synchronicity not seen between London and Rome since the dissolution of the monasteries, our own paunchy legate moved to shut down the snitches. In response to a question about people dobbing in neighbours who disregard lockdown rules, Boris Johnson declared: “I have never much been in favour of sneak culture.”

While the Pope might have a very literal balcony to stand on in the war against gossip, the Prime Minister’s role as defender of the faithful is a little more tenuous. Johnson first made his name as a young journalist willing to circumvent accuracy in the pursuit of a good story. As Brussels correspondent for the Daily Telegraph, he sowed exaggeratory seeds of EU corruption that would later bear fruit during the successful Brexit campaign. At the same time, he was sowing enough wild oats to cultivate an image of virile bonhomie.

Using his shrewdly concocted persona, Johnson moved effortlessly from Fleet Street to No.10 via City Hall. A willingness to make fantastic claims meant he could outmanoeuvre more sanctimonious rivals. A colourful private life was presented as evidence of his abundant charm. Before election as Conservative leader, allies claimed he would bring positivity back to a country riven by political strife: a Merry Monarch for the Brexit age; a cavalier able to resist cries of impeachment.

In power, though, Johnson’s Teflon status has begun to wear thin. Whereas once he could twist any rumour into a bon mot, or indeed an “inverted pyramid of piffle,” today the gossip mill threatens to breach his keeling leadership. In September, an Italian newspaper reported the Prime Minister went on a secret holiday to Perugia at the height of a national crisis. The story quickly unravelled, not least thanks to help from, of all places, the Catholic Church. But there was something telling in the willingness of several national titles to run with it: the country now believes Boris Johnson has no shame.

I spoke to Chris Lochery, an editor at Britain’s preeminent gossip organ Popbitch, about why the Prime Minister seems to attract so much chatter. He said, “I can’t remember a public figure who’s excited this much gossip.” Johnson’s reputation made him a Popbitch regular long before he entered No.10. Now he’s inside, the rumour mill seems to have spun out of control—most recently with the departure of Johnson's ally, former director of communications Lee Cain. After more than a year’s deluge, Lochery admits that recently Boris’s gossip has taken on a life of its own. Gone are nicknames like “Alexander the Great.” In their place, rumours and conspiracy theories abound.

Under Johnson, decision making has been ruthlessly concentrated in No.10. The irony is that this consolidation, orchestrated by his chief adviser Dominic Cummings, was partly intended to prevent leaks and rumours getting out. Marie Le Conte, author of Haven’t You Heard?, a study on Westminster gossip, believes it has had the opposite effect: “it’s such a small operation which very few people have access to. Usually there’d be sources able to disprove these stories, but they just don’t exist.”

Add to the mix a gossip drought caused by the closure of its usual generators (Commons bars, party conferences, etc.) and an opposition leader seemingly picked for his very boringness—Keir Starmer's nasal tones acting as a scrambler to deflect pressure back on Johnson—and it’s unsurprising that juice is being wrung from traditionally reliable places like the Prime Minister’s love life.

As Le Conte’s book explains, gossip has always been rife in British politics, often deployed to enhance or damage the reputations of MPs rising through the ranks. If anyone has benefited from it before this year, it’s Johnson. Rumours of his wit and charisma greased the hallways from Brussels to Downing Street. But in recent months, his every move has become the source of intense speculation, giving an unerring sense of political atrophy less than a year after electoral triumph.

When the fake Perugia story ("Departuregate") broke, there was anger and indignation. What appeared to be missing was surprise. Even traditional allies apparently believed Johnson to be capable of anything. In the past, his unpredictability was used to blindside rivals, and posited as an advantage in Brexit negotiations. But during the height of the pandemic, when partisanship had all but subsided, Johnson’s unseriousness came across as terrifying ineptitude. As the crisis draws on, muddled announcements and late press conferences give the impression of policy made on the hoof.

Looking for a single controversy to explain Johnson’s spiralling downward trajectory, it’s tempting to reach for a biggie—there have, after all, been quite a few. In the end, though, it might be something Johnson didn’t do that becomes more symbolic of his fall. Public trust is a slippery thing that’s hard to grasp once it’s been lost. There’s a Korean proverb, “words have no wings, but they can fly a thousand miles.” Given the calumny that followed his phantom trip last month, the Prime Minister might wish he’d gone to Perugia after all.