For some reason best known only to my stomach I decided that despite it being July what I really, really, wanted this evening was bangers and mash.

As I lie prostrate on the sofa trying to divert enough blood from my belly to write I am forced to reconsider whether this was a wise move. My stomach is purring, literally, however as I’m not a cat it cannot easily be said to be a good thing…

…So, I haven’t been up to much interesting which is more than I can say for erstwhile fop Boris Johnson who has – lord help us – thrown his cycling helmet into the race for the London Mayorship. The silly season, it seems, is now in full swing.

Seriously, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. On a personal level, I find Boris Johnson to be hilariously funny in his self-appointed “Tim nice but dim” media personality. However, the idea that because he gracefully allows himself to look like a tool in front of the world on a regular basis will compel me to vote for him is bordering on the offensive.

If I want to see that every day all I need do is look in the mirror.

Then there is London. I may have a love-hate relationship with the big smoke but I do live here and I do not think a floppy-haired blonde who has given birth to such legends as:

– Yes, cannabis is dangerous, but no more than other perfectly legal drugs. It’s time for a rethink, and the Tory party – the funkiest, most jiving party on Earth – is where it’s happening.

– No one obeys the speed limit except a motorised rickshaw

– I don’t see why people are so snooty about Channel 5. It has some respectable documentaries about the Second World War. It also devotes considerable airtime to investigations into lap dancing, and other related and vital subjects.

– What has the BBC come to? Toilets, that’s what

– We are confident in our story and will be fighting this all the way. I am very sorry that Alastair Campbell has taken this decision but I can see that he got his tits in the wringer.

And who, dear friends, could forget:

– I have not had an affair with Petronella. It is complete balderdash. It is an inverted pyramid of piffle. It is all completely untrue and ludicrous conjecture. I am amazed people can write this drivel.

I don’t know what’s more shocking – that Boris managed to convince more than one woman to have sex with him or that he thinks he has a serious chance of getting elected or that someone actually named their child Petronella.

I’m tempted to vote for him just to see what the hell he’ll do if he gets in, which in a sense is what this is all about, as I suspect many feel this way if the rapid rise of the Facebook group “BORIS FOR LONDON MAYOR” is anything to go by.

Don’t.

Don’t even entertain it even though the alternative is the socialist equivalent of Boycie (the dodgy salesman from Only Fools and Horses). My reason is simple. Like other people’s children the fun of Boris is that after you’re done laughing up your sleeve with incredulity you can hand him back, metaphorically speaking. No Harm Done.

The same cannot be said of the Mayor who you only get to elect every four years and who can, if the incumbant wishes, do a great deal of harm whether it is in the deprived East of London or the affluent West. If you don’t believe me ask any of the people in Woolwich hanging on for the arrival of crossrail on which Boris failed to vote.

Besides if he becomes mayor who will taste all the wine on Saturday Kitchen: