As we prepared to leave the Dorchester, Boris ran his fingers through that famous mop of clean, blond hair and motioned with his bulbous thumb towards the lavatory.

‘Would you care to…?’

He didn’t need to say any more.

‘I’ll see you in trap two – the disabled option. Plenty of legroom’ I replied, winking like a schoolgirl.

I waited in the large cubicle, unbuttoning my blouson and undoing my shoelaces – keenly aware that Boris is a notorious toe-sucker.
He arrived minutes later, panting and flushed.

‘What’s the matter, Boris?’ I asked, clenching my buttocks.
‘Sorry old bean, was rushing around trying to find one of these…’

He fished a tangerine from his pocket, knowing full well that I knew how he intended to use it.
In one quick movement he unbuttoned his shirt and stuffed the tangerine into his mouth. In a flash his trousers and pants were on the wet floor and he stood before me as naked as the day he was born.

‘Give us a twirl, Boz’ I called, enthusiastically.

As he did so, I noticed each aureole was discoloured – a bruised blue and black against his blank white flesh. He was entirely without hair in the pubic region and his scrotum housed only a single bollock, causing it to hang symmetrically like a bowling ball in a plastic bag. The major surprise arose as he displayed the rear view – for where you and I have a pair of buttocks, the Mayor of London has a collection of three cheeks – each one as dimpled and pimply as the other.

He was upon me before I could count his anuses.