The Conservatives are a defeated army in vindictive retreat, robbing the museums and cathedrals as they head for the hills; setting fire to, and laying waste to, every institution in their wake; poisoning the rivers and destroying the food supplies; leaving only a barren mess for the incoming Labour government to shoulder the blame for. Jonathan Gullis has found a lacy French bra in the rubble of a fine mansion and is wearing it as a hat, laughing and touching his genitals; in an abandoned dentist’s waiting room, Bill Cash has eaten an entire tank of tropical fish; Suella Braverman has made oven gloves out of the corpse of a dead cat; and, having ruined a hospital, Mark Francois is now asleep, naked, in an incubator.
At least the scorched earth policy of the second world war armies only scorched the earth. The Conservatives, and their divisive Brexit, burned the soul out of Britain. We recognise the nation we used to know, but only as Charlton Heston, in Planet of the Apes, recognises the stuffed corpse of his former crewmate Dodge, eviscerated and mounted by apes in a museum, a glass-eyed taxidermy cadaver of its old self.
