BORIS Johnson makes me smile.

There’s something about his foppish Englishness, the unruly mop of hair (I remember that once...) and his eccentric mannerisms that screams of a character in the classic Ealing comedies of the past.

You could just imagine him sharing double entendres and the odd “ooh matron” with Kenneth Williams, Charles Hawtrey and Hattie Jacques.

“Infamy, infamy Boris; they’ve all got it infamy ...”

But Johnson’s po-faced reaction to the offer of staging the 2017 Tour de France start is no laughing matter.

Rather than embracing it with both arms a la Yorkshire, Johnson hoisted two fingers on behalf of the capital because the Grand Depart would cost too much.

Johnson argued that splashing out £35 million on the first day of Le Tour was “not worth it” for a one-off event and would be better spent improving cycling routes around the capital.

It was a petty, penny-pinching refusal; so much for good old cuddly Boris, the life and soul of the party.

His refusal conveniently ignored the findings from the “Three Inspirational Days” report , which revealed the huge benefits from that glorious weekend last year when Le Tour decamped over here – and more specifically up here.

According to the figures, the UK economy was boosted by £128 million – £102 million of that in Yorkshire. A quarter of the overall total came from tourism as visitors flooded in from overseas.

The numbers clearly added up on so many levels but po-faced Johnson refuses to sanction the chance to do it all again.

Perhaps he was a bit miffed that London had a soggy day; unlike the wall-to-wall sunshine that accompanied the peloton across the Broad Acres.

“The grandest Grand Depart” was race director Christian Prudhomme’s glowing tribute.

Le Tour couldn’t get enough of Yorkshire and the feeling was mutual – the same report revealed that one in four people in the county had witnessed the race at some point.

I count myself among those very fortunate spectators having caught a glimpse of the blur of coloured lycra whizzing through Haworth.

A framed image of the bunch weaving its way up Main Street’s historic cobbles has pride of place in the living room; the wedding photo has to make do with domestique duties in the far corner.

My football route towards Rochdale this morning will take in the same roads from that day like the Cote d’Oxenhope Moor and Ripponden. The chalked names on the tarmac are still faintly visible in places; the memories etched deep.

And once the whole hoopla had disappeared, thoughts turned to wondering about when we could do it all again; except Johnson and London don’t want to come back to the party.

Dusseldorf, a fine city in its own right, will have the honours in two years’ time by the looks of it. Good luck to them.

I just hope London’s snub isn’t interpreted by the race organisers as the general feeling.

The capital is sulking on its own behalf; the rest of us cannot wait for more. It’s worth all the Carry On ...