After battling Covid, becoming a new dad and the death of his beloved mother Bojo should like to be beside the seaside

BORIS and Carrie are off to the seaside, a jolly late- season caper with baby Wilfred on the sandy beaches of Marbella.

“Disgusting! How dare he leave when starving people are freezing to death by candlelight?” scream the Boris-haters.

They probably assume being PM is a coddled existence, ­surrounded by Number Ten flunkeys or basking in luxury at his Chequers mansion.

Well, there is some of that — but it is also a relentless grind.

A short Downing Street lease has its upsides, not least a team at fingertip distance jumping to attention at any tick of the clock.

But it is a dreary flat over the shop, with no escape from constantly beeping phones.

True, nobody forced him to take the job.

But every Prime Minister faces a 24/7 slog into an ­incessant blizzard of decisions and trip hazards which turn tenants grey with exhaustion.

That’s how Boris Johnson looked when I saw him in Manchester last week, living on adrenalin, roast duck and a small, untouched glass of red wine.

It triggered memories of a moment 30 years ago at the infamous Maastricht summit when I offered BoJo — then a scruffy young Brussels reporter — the privilege of writing a column for The Sun.

Boris decided instead to become Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland — the nearest thing to his declared childhood dream of being “World King”.

What a great career opportunity he passed up that day!

Now he is having to cope with threats and intimidation from Moscow and Beijing, crazy crusties glued to the M25 and the fear of lights going out all over Britain.

NON-STOP SNIPING

Who could have predicted the extraordinary challenges facing this landslide election winner over the past 18 months?

The Covid pandemic roared out of China, knocking the wind out of Brexit’s billowing sails and coming terrifyingly close to killing Boris himself.

He became a father for the umpteenth time as he fought for his own life in intensive care. He remarried a month later and just weeks ago lost his much-loved mum.

Through all this he had to endure non-stop sniping and sabotage from French loser Emmanuel Macron, the most vindictive political opportunist in Europe.

As Boris would say: “Donnez-moi un break!”

No human being can work relentlessly forever and stay on top of his game.

Even those who wonder exactly what game Boris is on top of will understand everyone needs a break.

Of course, there were a few who grotesquely prayed for Boris to die last year. They are the same sort of ugly characters who spat “scum” at Tory politicians, voters and Sun readers during Labour’s conference — turning “Scum Pride” into a badge of honour.

As the late, great royal reporter Harry Arnold told the Duke of Edinburgh: “We may be scum, your Royal Highness, but we are the creme de la scum.”

So Boris Johnson deserves a bit of autumn ­sunshine.

A break in the Costa del Sol, land of little-known Love Island celebs, will recharge his fuel cells, fill out his briefly slimmer frame and deliver him home after two weeks refreshed and ready to keep the lights on.

BoJo will be back just in time to lead the troublesome COP26 summit, besieged on one side by climate lunatics and on the other by those ­paying through the nose in green levies to appease them.

There is a lot on his plate.

MAFIA BOSS

Fatuous French fishermen are threatening a fresh outbreak of the lobster wars and a showdown looms with megalomaniac ­Macron over electricity supplies to Jersey.

There will be a skirmish with Brussels over the EU’s stupid trade block between the UK and Northern Ireland, a tussle with Kremlin mafia boss Vlad Putin over gas ­supplies to Europe.

And, like the theme music from Jaws, there will be the drumbeat of runaway inflation which could bite a hole in the fragile economy.

We all need a holiday once in a while.

And to quote BoJo’s response to Covid critics on Freedom Day, if not now, when?

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