What A Sunday Boris Johnson, our undaunted Prime Minister arrived in Kyiv, on Saturday, probably parachuted in like James Bond, I imagine, because no one is quite sure how he got there. Must have asked Ursula von der Leyen, the European Commissioner, who went before him. The Press here did not make a huge issue out of her visit. But, of course, she was a mere woman. And does not weigh anywhere near as much as Boris, and cannot claim an unruly blond thatch. Rishi Sunak, our esteemed gilt-edged Chancellor, meanwhile, is throwing a tantrum, because unknown, conniving people, started investigating his wife’s tax status, and publicised the extent of her enormous wealth. Very bad manners in rich-boy circles. No 10 would never do such a sneaky thing, would they? After all Rishi is a neighbour. Now the lady is threatening to move her establishment to the United States. Our chancellor will become a grass-widower. Boris is on a mission to save his PM-ship. Sunak was getting too close for comfort, but now it looks as though the Chancellor has burnt his boat. Not Machiavellian enough. He could of course, return to California, which he once called home. Boris, of course, is showing big ‘as a global leader.’ The Ukranian PM, Zelenskyy, doesn’t have a clue about how insubstantial Boris’s affections can be. Thankfully, City drew in the match against Liverpool. The commentators were all disappointed. What is City’s magic with the guys, that make all of them drool when City gets a goal? Klopp and Guardiola hugged after the match, as though they meant it.