I’d gone to the Tory conference in Birmingham with a brief to ask those who voted for our new prime minister, that self-selecting 0.06% of the population, whether they were already feeling buyer’s remorse. Conservative foot soldiers and doorsteppers like to think of themselves as a loyal bunch, at least when it comes to the annual jamboree. Still, there weren’t many within the fortified ring of the conference centre who would even own up to having supported Truss. A few insisted: “It’s still her honeymoon.” How we laughed. As honeymoons go, this one was right up there with the worst wet weekend in Rhyl. John Ruskin’s classic nuptial getaway, in which he supposedly never recovered from the shock of discovering that his new bride had pubic hair, came to mind.
Conservative party members are never slow to voice a belief that things aren’t what they used to be. Some of those older party stalwarts in the bars and cafes of the conference halls were facing a reality that the upper reaches of their tribe had been hollowed out, not just of dissenting voices, but also of sentient life.
