If ever you’ve never had the misfortune to have parents who have gone through a bitter and rancorous divorce, who many years later still nurse grudges about who said what to whom, who carefully nurture the memory of the dirty looks over the dinner table, the slights, the insults, the resentment, and the anger, then you don’t need to imagine it. You only needed to gaze upon the Conservative party conference.
There was, amongst the bile and the outright delusion, some deeply creepy stuff going on. And not just because Torydom en masse is creepy by definition, a collection of red-faced bigotry in blazers, wrapping themselves in the fleg because they’re not nationalists, nursing grievances about all those imagined slights from vile Europeans, and telling themselves that everything will be fine because we’re British and being British means being plucky and Vera Lynnish and never getting over WW bloody Two.
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