BORIS JOHNSON: To this day I don't know exactly why Gove attacked me. What displeases me most is the sheer stupidity of it.

Incurably attached to Michael Gove, I think I speak for several former Conservative Prime Ministers when I say that it is always a good idea to keep an eye on him in the rearview mirror.

He and I met at the Oxford Union and I admired his brilliantly improvised Scottish orotundity. He was quite nice, tweedy, often very drunk and, then, as now, wonderfully polite. He had attended my college, and every now and then we went to the same absurd debate club dinners.

Some people have claimed that neither Michael nor I really intend to win the Brexit referendum campaign, which is obviously bullshit. Others say we weren't really motivated by arguments over the EU but by a desire to bring down the Cameron government. Again, this is patent bullshit.

I wasn't fighting this referendum campaign thinking: “Cor, things are going well. In a few months I could be Prime Minister and neither could Michael, I'm pretty sure.

At no point during this campaign have we discussed a future Leave-based government, as the Cameron governments have stated that their policy is to implement the referendum result. So when David Cameron left the scene rather than dealing with the logical consequences of the events he had set in motion, we were wrong-footed.

While we looked pretty shocked a few hours later when we finally claimed victory, that wasn't the case, as everyone on Twitter immediately declared, because we were dejected that we had won (we weren't). That's because we suddenly had a lot on our plates.

Remainers were shouting outside our houses, calling us c***s and banging on our cars. We had to face the anger and perplexity of our colleagues in Parliament.

It had been barely a year since Cameron had won an absolute majority, and now he was throwing himself spectacularly onto the funeral pyre of the UK's membership of the EU.

And now who? The general consensus was that the next Prime Minister should be from the Leave team. That meant either Gove or me, since we were the most prominent Tory campaigners. Michael had undoubtedly been brilliant during the campaign, but many claimed (on what basis I'm not sure) that I had reached an even wider group of voters, and some thought I might have even more as successful as Michael. when it came to fighting and winning a future general election campaign.

Gove and I went to a small office, maybe even a broom closet or other janitorial establishment, to try to get rid of it. We came out with an agreement in principle and the next day he called to confirm it 100 percent. He would be my chancellor and my effective number two.

I was so exhausted and so relieved to have something like a plan from the start that I underestimated the perils of the days ahead and the immense complexities involved in trying to become Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. As soon as he announced his departure, Cameron kicked off a vast orgy of plots and machinations across Westminster.

What was I doing on this important Saturday? I went to play cricket.

For years Charlie Spencer, Earl of, invited the Johnson family to field an XI, and every year we turned to the most ridiculously talented ringers, one year we had Kevin Pietersen, another year we had Brian Lara and even so, we still lose. I really didn't want to cancel.

In retrospect, I can see how frivolous it seemed. The country was in tumult; we had voted to embark on a massive geostrategic realignment and constitutional change, which I had encouraged, and I was in my old muckers stately home, frolicking in white crickets and knocking down the Pimms. Over the next few days, the Johnson-Gove alliance persevered. We enjoyed working together, we had a mandate to achieve a full Brexit. We could have been unstoppable.

Alas, this was not to be the case. Thursday morning, when I was supposed to go out and launch my campaign, Michael decided to blow me up on the launch pad.

My campaign manager, Lynton Crosby, called me at dawn and tersely told me the bad news. Goves runs, mate, he said. (I haven't heard of Michael himself at all, I think.)

He was my campaign chairman and indeed my running mate, and he held a position of great power and trust. So I was surprised.

If I had been preparing to run for months, had a list of supporters and a well-oiled machine, I imagine I might have persevered.

But Gove had chosen the perfect moment to strike and knock me off balance. I knew it was essential that my team looked strong from the start and presented a united front. Gove completely derailed this.

To this day, I don't know exactly why he attacked me. He had all kinds of voices in his ear. George Osborne was certainly urging him to run.

It so happened that Michael, as campaign chairman, had appointed a bright young Brexiteer MP to watch over me as I made my speech to my colleagues and took note of what was said.

His name was Rishi Sunak. Much later, Rishi said to me: You trusted these people too much. A lot of them really weren't on your side.

Six years later, I was to remember this remark and the historical irony it contains.

Of course, I was sad about Michael's behavior. I particularly disapproved of the way he began to publicly criticize me in order to justify his own decision. What displeased me most was the sheer stupidity of what he had done.

I felt like he had been used by Osborne and company, who had liquidated and radicalized him to harm me, when I didn't really think he would win himself; and it had therefore made it far less likely that Brexit would be delivered by someone who actually understood or cared about what we were trying to do; And there was a real possibility that Brexit might not go through at all.

My fears were well founded. Gove himself blew up soon after as he failed to get enough MP votes to stay in the race and Cameron sent me a text saying: I bet that was nice.

In fact, this is not the case. It just made me even darker.

Shortly after the opening of the London Olympics, I went to Victoria Park in Hackney to inaugurate the zip line.

We were concerned in the early days of the Games that our live sites were a little under-attended. We had huge TV screens set up in London's parks so people without tickets could watch athletics matches, but the crowds stayed away.

What we needed was a little buzz, a little excitement. After recently riding one in India, I decided the answer was a zipline. After some delay, due to health and safety concerns, such a device was duly constructed.

I climbed to the top of the scaffolding tower, connected by a steel riser to another tower about a hundred meters away. It all looked a bit run down. Am I really the first person to try this? I asked. You are! they beamed.

I strapped on the harness, donned a blue helmet and, waving two plastic Union Jacks, launched myself into space. I immediately spun around and found myself going backwards. Having started out going at a worryingly fast pace, I realized that I was going rather slowly until I stopped, hanging in mid-air, about three-quarters of the way through.

I moved my harness to try and alleviate some pretty extreme discomfort in my groin. I waved Union Jacks and tried to joke with the crowd. There was no way to hide the truth. I was stuck, 40 feet up, and no one knew how to get me down.

Then I saw Carl, a Metropolitan Police protection officer assigned to me for the Games. Carl, I said, can you shoot me? Slowly, he reached into his breast pocket, as if he were about to draw a pistol and pull the wire in two; then took out his cell phone to take a photo of my humiliation.

About half an hour later, after finding a rope to drag myself to the back tower, I set off by car with my political advisor. It didn't seem like the episode was going to burnish my image as a serious man and world statesman, and I wanted reassurance.

I shouldn't think the media will make much of this, right? I asked. I don't think they'll have any photos, will they? No, he said, I'm sure everything will be fine. He looked at his cell phone, where the news appeared, and laughed.

It was a fiasco – but it certainly drew crowds to the Live venues; and the very next day, Team GB began to earn an incredible torrent of gold.

• Adapted from Unleashed, by Boris Johnson (William Collins, 30), to be published on October 10. Boris Johnson 2024. To order a copy for 25.50 (offer valid until October 12, 2024; free UK postage on orders over 25) go to mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.