BORIS: THE BLOND BAMPOT

She had to go of course. Arguably she should have gone the first time her unloved Withdrawal deal suffered the worst parliamentary dizzie in living memory.  Arguably she should never have set foot in Number 10 in the first place. A prissy woman, long on perceived duty, desperately short of imagination. It would be charitable to assume that she was merely miscast; that her previous ministerial performance, not least a very lengthy spell at the Home Office, at least demonstrated a level of commitment and competence.

And then you remember that it was on her watch that the "hostile environment" to inward migration was created, that vans were sent round telling people to go "home", that Windrush migrants, who came at our post war invitation to shore up employment in areas like the NHS, were dispatched to islands they knew little of because they lacked decades of documentation. That is not competence; that is deliberate cruelty. And done, we must suppose, to burnish credentials as a hard liner on immigration, and pander to the more unsavoury elements perched on the right wing of her party.

She became PM because of stage one of the Brexit bourach in June 3 years ago, when some other possible contenders, post referendum, felt the most pressing need was to impersonate headless chickens. When some of her male rivals used up time and energy stabbing each other in the front. When a female rival imploded the minute she opened her mouth in public. Mrs May stayed calm, and Mrs May picked up the keys to Downing Street.  

But the truly frightening thing - and we have no shortage of them - is that the very same cast list of inadequate wannabees are now forming a disorderly queue all over again.  I give you Dominic Raab, the man who was brieftly Brexit secretary during which  posting he discovered to his surprise that Dover to Calais seemed to be an important trade route. 

I give you Michael Gove who first endorsed his pal Boris, standing proudly alongside him and the bus with one of the biggest lies in the leave campaign emblazoned on it, and then, having spent some hours in his company realised that he was not, ahem, Prime Ministerial material. Whereupon little Mr Gove stepped forward himself only to attract derisory support. 

There are of course many more. The late and unlamented defence Secretary, Gavin Williamson aka Private Pike, apparently cherished hopes of the top job. Sajid Javid, the current Home Secretary certainly does, though having had Mrs Thatcher foisted upon us, the prospect of her number one fan inheriting the crown is rather less than seductive.  Jeremy Hunt fancies his chances and thus is busy morphing from a centre right remainer, to an arch brexiteer wanting to buy twice as many armaments as anybody else. All of these chaps have suddently felt the need to show off their partners and kitchens to the colour supplements. 

But, natch, first out of the traps officially, is Boris the blond bampot, who has spent an entire life lusting after the premiership despite personal "qualities" which, in a more rational age, wouldn't let him near a red box. His mayorship of London was long on self congratulation short, say his then colleagues, on anything resembling work or detailed planning. Boris doesn't do detail. Witness the millions chucked at the Garden Bridge which died the death, or the fantasy airport in the Thames Estuary, ditto. Conversely the matter of plotting his own rise is a project on which he has worked assiduously.

Boris is like that vaguely amusing cousin, who does a bit of a turn at a party, but who you are always mightily relieved to see depart - so long as he's not leaving with somebody else's partner. Then again, his somewhat chequered career as a known adulterer is the least of our worries. What is most concerning about Boris is that he has always persuaded himself, and some others, that he is clever enough to  just busk any job he manages to acquire. 

This unravelled most spectacularly during his spell as Foreign Secretary - a post to which Mrs May bafflingly appointed him despite being well aware of his shortcomings where any complex task was involved. Perhaps she just wanted him inside the tent rather than hurling bricks from the outside. That went well. 

As Foreign Secretary there was barely any country inside or outside Europe whom he failed to insult through cack handed comment fuelled by lazy ignorance.  Let's not forget his careless remarks which exacerbated the ordeal  of Nazanin Zhagari-Radcliffe. He was condially loathed by his EU peers.  So, obviously, the very man the UK needs to try and rescue a deal with the 27 countries who would be pushed to give him the time of day.

The Tory heartlands and associations apparently love Boris, and they will be the final electorate. They are small in number, mostly elderly, and easily seduced by a conference performance with lots of jokes, lots of insults, and no discernible working policies. First though Westminster conservatives have to whittle down the buregoning queue of would be leaders to just a couple to put before this tiny, right wing electorate. In short, the only people who can save us from Boris are his conservative colleagues in the Commons.

Many of them have his number.  Many, like Dominic Grieve, have already said they couldn't possibly serve under him.  Will there be enough honest men and women to stop him in his tracks?  But think on this.  By the Autumn of this year you will have a Prime Minister for whom nobody but the majority out of 100,000 or so diehard Tory activists have been invited to vote.

The most disastrous option is Bojo. But there is, in truth, nobody in the current line-up whom you would want to run a bath.  Time for Scotland to check out.