The collapse of the Conservative Party is so full of dramatic potential that it demands literary adaptation. The question is, what genre is most appropriate?
As a farce, it would feature a confident new prime minister striding on to the stage in every scene only to slip on a banana skin seconds later. As a 19th-century novel it would benefit from the huge cast of characters, including swaggering Bullingdon Club Etonians straight out of Trollope; Baroness Mone, the knicker queen, clearly a bit-part from Vanity Fair; and Lex Greensill, the shady Dickensian financier.
In an Abba-themed musical, the partygate scenes would involve complex dance routines in which civil servants wheel suitcases full of booze, while Boris performs Money, Money, Money backed by a group of shimmying blonde spads.
In the end, though, it is essentially a Greek tragedy. David Cameron, full of hubris, calls the referendum to save the Tories from a fringe of nationalists. Unimpressed by his cavalier disregard for the broader national interest, the Fates decree that instead of saving his people, his decision will tear them apart.
Nemesis turns up in a tweed three-piece suit clutching a pint of beer and the nationalists skewer the Tories while Labour, carrying red banners, storms the citadel.
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Flavour first
It may be that the optimism of a new dawn has reached my taste buds, but strawberries seem to taste better this year. I suspect it is because the strawberry-growing business has gone full circle: from the delicious berries of my childhood, through fruit selected only for fast growth and appearance, to the realisation that consumers will pay for flavour.
It wouldn’t be astonishing, for this process is documented as having transformed Brussels sprouts. Remember how they used to taste horrible? That’s because food scientists, in creating prolific new varieties, accidentally made sprouts bitter.
To reverse the process, they isolated the chemicals involved, found an older variety of sprout that produced less of them and spliced it with the prolific modern strain to create a new breed that tasted better but still grew fast. That’s why, these days, a generously buttered Brussels sprout is a fine thing.
I suspect strawberries are on the same positive trajectory. Capitalism often gets things right in the end, but sometimes it takes a while.
Why ‘dad’ is bad
A new and insidious form of sexism has crept into modern parlance: the obsession with “dad” things. Dad dancing, dad jeans, dad jokes, dad bods, dad trainers. The popularity of this theme discriminates against female columnists, for it provides a rich seam for our male counterparts, who get to write acres of copy defending their sagging trousers and crass humour.
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You’ll never see a similar column by a woman. It’s not because we can’t write them, it’s because there’s no call for them. The fault lies with society, which fails to laugh at mothers in the way it does fathers. Mothers are always caring and sensible: a little embarrassing sometimes but never absurd.
Unless people are prepared to ridicule our figures and our awkward dance moves, there’s nothing for us to defend ourselves against. Without derision from younger people, it’s impossible to manufacture the outrage necessary for a column.
• Sneer at William and me if you like, but we’re not really dad dancing
It’s not as though mothers don’t provide sufficient cause. We’ve got just as many unfortunate bulges and pairs of elasticated trousers ordered from the back covers of magazines as fathers have. What we lack is power.
Because men have the stuff and women don’t, it’s safe to amuse oneself at their expense without being seen to pick on the weak. You can laugh at dads but not mums for the same reason that you can laugh at Germans and Americans but not Pakistanis or Somalis.
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When mums invite enough ridicule for me to be commissioned to write a piece defending us, I’ll know we’ve finally won equality.
