It is a little over 20 years since I embarked upon what might be called “the trip of a lifetime” (in that I hoped nothing like it would ever happen to me again so long as I lived). This was to sit in the back of an expensive four-wheel drive and be driven across the entirety of Uganda by two strident UNHCR women to see the “excellent” work their organisation had been doing in the (then as now) utterly benighted country. My back-seat companion was a man quite possibly known to you: Boris Johnson.
On one interminable journey up towards the (then) Sudanese border, where various bands of psychopathic maniacs were murdering one another, Johnson spent the entire time singing to himself Dire Straits’s Money
