There he is on the cover, clever and tousled; there he is on the back cover, too, a little less scruffy this time, in suit and open-necked shirt. Then the author photograph, suit and tie to the fore, one hand artfully ruffling the flaxen mane. Three Borises, with only the hint of a Coliseum behind him. Never mind the imperial cult. This is the cult of Boris. What happened to Rome?
You’d be mad not to know Boris had a book out on Rome. That or you don’t watch television, read newspapers, listen to the radio or walk past high-street bookshops. Boris, like the head of the emperor Augustus on Roman coinage of the time, is everywhere.