I was Boris Johnson's tutor at Oxford – but did I teach him the right lessons?

Anthony Kenny 5 July 2019 • 7:00pm

Boris Johnson, president of the Oxford Union, in 1986, with Melina Mercouri, the Greek culture minister Credit: ELGIN JOHNSON/ Reuters Staff

The Balliol College Register for 1983 contains an entry that begins: “JOHNSON Alexander Boris de Pfeffel: JOHNSON, Boris – b. 19 June 1964. New York. American. Generally known while at Balliol as Boris Johnson. Eton; Balliol 1983–7.”

Boris came up to Balliol to read for the four-year course in classical literature, history and philosophy known as Literae Humaniores. Had he come up a few years earlier, it would have been my job to teach him Plato and Aristotle; by 1983, I was no longer a classics tutor, but Master of the college. Boris’s tutor in ancient philosophy was Jonathan Barnes, who went on record, in the first published biography of Boris, as regarding him as “definitely a good egg”.

The head of a college supervises the education of undergraduates only at one remove. At Balliol, at the end of each term, the tutors assembled in the Master’s dining room and the students were called in one after the other to listen to a report on their work. This ceremony was called “handshaking”, though no hands were shaken.

On the basis of the tutors’ reports, I formed the judgment that, while Boris had the necessary intelligence, he lacked the appropriate diligence to achieve the first-class degree that he clearly felt was his due. Though he sat lightly to formal academic obligations, Boris did acquire a genuine love of the classics during his undergraduate years, and he was far from idle in social and political pursuits.

In Balliol, there was a debating club, the Arnold and Brackenbury Society. It was a light-hearted affair, resembling Matthew Arnold, the frivolous undergraduate, rather than Matthew Arnold, the sage of sweetness and light. It was presided over by a stuffed owl named Mr Gladstone, and it had an absurdly complicated set of voting rules allowing, among other options, negative non-abstentions.

Oxford undergraduate Boris Johnson, with his sister Rachel, arriving at Viscount Althorp's 21st birthday party Credit: Steve Back/ANL/Rex

Boris became president of this society, and on one occasion he and I spoke on the same side in favour of the motion: “This house would prefer a double Napoleon to a pair of Wellingtons.” Our motion was carried overwhelmingly.

The Balliol JCR of those days was dominated by groups to the Left of the Communist Party, and Boris did not find it congenial. He spent more time with other clubs, such as the Bullingdon, and the Oxford Union. In 1986, he ran for the presidency of the Union. Though nothing like as rabid as the Balliol JCR, the Union was sufficiently Left-wing for it to be inconceivable for a Tory to be elected as president. Boris concealed his Conservative affiliation and let it be widely understood that he was a Social Democrat.

So far as I know, he told no actual lies, but his strategy recalled Thomas Macaulay’s words about the difference between lying and deceiving: “Metternich told lies all the time, and never deceived any one; Talleyrand never told a lie and deceived the whole world.” With Talleyrand-like skill, Boris got himself elected as president of the Oxford Union in Trinity Term.

Shortly after this, I was telephoned by Dick Taverne, an SDP MP, who told me that he was looking for an intern to work for him during the vacation. He inquired whether I could suggest any candidates.

“I’ve just the man for you,” I said, “bright and witty and with suitable political views. He’s just finished being president of the Union, and his name is Boris Johnson.”

When I summoned Boris to ask whether he was interested in the job, he burst out laughing: “Master, don’t you know I am a dyed-in-the-wool Tory?”

In 1987, Boris sat the final examinations. He was determined to get a first, and seemed confident that he could do so on the basis of six weeks of really hard work. Perhaps he might have been able to do so had he taken eight weeks: quite a few firsts have been gained on the basis of a last-minute spurt.

Sir Anthony Kenny: 'While Boris had the necessary intelligence, he lacked the appropriate diligence to achieve the first-class degree that he clearly felt was his due' — Sir Anthony Kenny, formerly Master of Balliol College: 'While Boris had the necessary intelligence, he lacked the appropriate diligence to achieve the first-class degree that he clearly felt was his due' Credit: Geraint Lewis / eyevine

But some weeks after the end of the examinations, Boris was summoned from France, told that his work was on the borderline between the first and second class, and instructed to appear for a viva, or oral examination.

A day or two later, Boris knocked on my door and presented a very humble appearance – the only time I have ever seen him do so. “I am to be viva’d on Aristotle,” he said. “My tutor is in France – but I hear you know something about Aristotle. Would you be kind enough to give me a tutorial in preparation?” So we sat together for the best part of a day and went over a number of likely questions.

In spite of this expert assistance, however, Boris achieved only an upper-second. That is something that he has never forgotten. Nor has David Cameron, who got a First – not, in Lit. Hum., however, but in PPE, as Boris likes to remind people.

Boris has retained an affection for Balliol. He married Marina Wheeler, who was a college contemporary. He dedicated one of his books on the ancient world to his four classics tutors, and he has kept in touch with Jasper Griffin, who was his language tutor. While Boris was Mayor of London, Jasper assisted him from time to time with the classical passages with which he likes to decorate his speeches. At Boris’s 50th birthday party, Jasper read out a Greek ode he had composed in his honour.

In 2015, on the bicentenary of the Battle of Waterloo, I sent Boris a postcard reminding him that he had once eloquently expressed a preference for Napoleon over Wellington. “Come referendum day,” I said, “remember your Europhile youth.” I received a witty but non-committal reply.

I last saw Boris in May 2017 at Jasper Griffin’s 80th birthday party. It was sporting of him to attend, in the middle of an general election campaign. He read a witty poem he had written in honour of Jasper, but he was not welcomed by many of the guests; some seriously considered walking out when he entered. As he left the college, he was hissed and booed by members of the current undergraduate generation.

As he departed, I reflected ruefully on the college’s part in his education. We had been privileged to be given the task of bringing up members of the nation’s political elite. But what had we done for Boris? Had we taught him truthfulness? No. Had we taught him wisdom? No.