It was unbearable. Of course it was. It would never be any other way. Liz Truss is done. His deputies know it. The country knows it. We are all filling time waiting for a definitive expiration date. Hoping the Tory party will do the humane thing.
Until compassionate conservatism. Right now, the kindest thing anyone could do is turn off Lizrium’s life support. Instead, they let her flounder, humiliating herself more and more each day. And all because no one yet knows how to replace it. Or with whom
And yet, strangely, it could have been a lot worse. Truss didn’t die. Or throw the glass of water at him and get electrocuted. The bar really is that low. The President did not call for a premature end to Prime Minister’s Questions to avoid further embarrassment. His artificial stupidity didn’t dampen in awkward moments. So his jerky arm movements were almost synchronized with his robotic delivery. almost
Her own MPs did not abuse her publicly. Sajid Javid, who had received a question on the order paper, did not bother to introduce himself. It was rumored that he had been bought off with No 10 suspending the aide who had allegedly told the media that Truss had always thought Saj was a piece of shit. As if. The idea that Truss has the insight to know if someone else is shit is patently absurd. How to get a piece of Amstrad junk from the 80s to review the latest iPhone.
Best of all, Jeremy Hunt didn’t intervene. At almost any moment he could have said enough is enough. That the new regime had tried to be an understanding and benevolent regime. That’s why he’d allowed Truss out from under the desk he’d been holding hostage to play team leader for half an hour. But having seen only a few minutes of her in action, he had decided to cut the indulgence short. It was time for the real new leaders of the regime to take over and calm the country down. Or try to, at least.
Five minutes before PMQs began, Thérèse Coffey took her place on the front bench. He reached into his doctor’s bag and began handing out large amounts of prescription psychotropics to other cabinet members. Although not to Hunt, who seemed to be already stumbling. Watching her face melt into the reflection of her shiny patent leather thigh-high boots.
The others eagerly popped the pills. By the fist Anything to ease the pain of their shared existential futility. Forgetting momentarily that they had allowed their ambition to attach itself to someone so obviously flawed. Intellectually and emotionally. Erasing the inevitability that they too become a thing of the past.
Then Librium Liz appeared. Smiling uselessly. As if he was not aware of the temporality of his condition. That this could be the last time he was given a starring role at PMQs. It was as if she too had been in the bag of narcotics. Although not for her the usual heavy tranquilizers and barbiturates. Instead, he went for the quaaludes. He somehow tries to reduce himself to a zombie state while driving her to dizzying heights of disinhibition. A disturbing proposal.
There had been no cheers to speak of to greet the arrival of the In Name Only leader. Rather, their own rear benches had gathered like observers at a traffic accident. Horrified by their own macabre, but not wanting to miss the action. In a few minutes we had the first laughs. All it took was for Truss to say he had passed the morning meeting with ministerial colleagues. Something that is said in every PMQ. Only this time everyone knew he didn’t have a partner. Catchers and keepers only.
From there it was just a painful and slow descent. Labour’s Justin Madders wanted to know why she had sacked her chancellor instead of herself. After all, Kwasi Kwarteng had only done exactly what he had promised the Conservative Party. “I’ve been clear,” said Quaalude Liz. She really hadn’t. She never is. Syncopated pauses mid-sentence provided a void that was only filled with more laughter. Truss smiled blankly again. He has no emotional antennae, so he can’t read the room. Unable to tell if people are laughing with her or at her. Someone should help her.
Keir Starmer then got up to administer more injuries. mortal head It suits Labor to have an ersatz prime minister who everyone knows is on life support. This was the Labor leader at his most surgical. His most forensic. Good gags, better soundbites. Short and not so sweet. Truss had nothing to say. Apart from “sorry”, “I make the hard decisions” – actually he doesn’t, the hard decisions are all made on his behalf – and “what has Labor done with the economic crisis?”. Er… a word for darkness. The workers have not been in government for more than 12 years. He did not cause the chaos nor is he in a position to do anything about it. Not yet, anyway.
He went there. Quaalude Liz told the SNP’s Ian Blackford that the triple lock on pensions would remain. Only no one knew if he had cleared it with his captors or if he was just working on his own. Only the day before, Reichsmarschall Hunt had rather suggested that he was interested in the death of the pensioners. And even if it were true now, there are an infinite number of parallel universes in the Truss space-time continuum in which things could be equally true and false at the same time. Today’s promise is just a lie waiting to happen.
There was no applause when Quaalude Liz left the chamber. Just empty silence as she was carried back to Downing Street to be put back in her cage. “We can’t let this happen again,” Hunt said. “Cancel her engagements this afternoon and keep her at home. The new regime has been too kind. Too benevolent. Time for another Kwasi. Somebody get rid of Suella Braverman. Somehow. Just for l ‘hell. To prove we can. It’s about time we had a Home Secretary who wasn’t half-hearted and vicious. We need someone with at least one brain cell.’
“What took you so long?” Grant Shapps said, flipping through his spreadsheet.
“It’s a kick,” sobbed the useless Suella.
No one expects the Guardian Anti-Growth Coalition. Long live Wokerati!