There's something rotten in the state of Britain. It’s called the Conservative Party, mired in deceit and decadence.
The Chris Pincher Affair is just the latest scandal to expose the moral depravity of a government that has lost all fitness to rule.
The drunken Dishonourable Member for Tamworth groped two men in the Tory holy of holies, the Carlton Club – an act that fellow MPs say was “unwanted, inappropriate and upsetting”.
That just about describes the state of a once-great governing party defiled by the Curse of Boris, and now floundering in its own ordure.
It was Johnson who tried to exculpate Owen Paterson MP, found guilty of serious breaches of parliamentary rules against paid lobbying.
It was Johnson who tried valiantly to hush up the Pincher Affair, pretending it was all a fuss about nothing and lying about what he knew. That turpitude cost him the premiership, because even his fellow ministers couldn’t stomach his arrogant egotism. But nothing has changed in almost a year since he quit in disgrace, except that the poison has gone further and deeper, tainting the entire party.
Voters can see that, and they don’t like it.
That’s why they take every opportunity to reject the Tories, and what they now stand for. I was there when toxic immorality did for John Major and his sleazy gang of MPs. They got what was coming to them.
But this feels worse, because the born-to-rulers have learned nothing from a crushing defeat brought about in large part by moral degradation.
Rishi Sunak promised to bring integrity and accountability to Downing Street.
Forget by-elections: the only way he can do that now is by inviting the British people to pass judgment on his party in a General Election.
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If I asked Brenda from Bristol about the King’s second coronation, I’m sure she’d explode: “What? Another one?”
Why bother? The Abbey orgy of pageantry in May was enough for most of us.
I take it this week’s regal fol-de-rol in Edinburgh was staged to remind rebellious Scots that Charles III is king of the whole UK, and they remain his subjects.
And His Majesty may now assume his proper title north of the border: Monarch of
the Glen.
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I’m old enough to remember when we had Coal Queens – glamorous wives, sisters or daughters of miners. Indeed, I’m old enough to remember when we had coal, but that’s another story.
Now I read that Miss England contestants will no longer pose in a swimsuit, even if they want to. Instead, they must compete in a round of ethical fashion against single-use plastic.
“Swimwear has had its day,” say the organisers. So has the beauty competition. It’s more outdated than coal.
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Having paid tens of millions for Wimbledon TV rights, BBC bosses feel obliged to inflict overkill.
Fifteen hours a day on two channels is too much, and there’s only so much Clare Balding or John McEnroe any viewer can take.
Daily Politics is downpaged, while Escape To The Country, my favourite for chuckling at wannabe
alpaca-raising, veggie-growing townies, is ditched altogether.
Tennis is a largely middle-class, minority pastime. Put it on a sport channel for those who like to hear mocking McEnroe and chatterbox Clare.
