Like every time small boats are in the news, the shadow home secretary, Chris Philp, will manoeuvre himself in front of a camera to suggest that all male migrants are either murderers or rapists. But some things feel older than time itself. Like Liz Truss trying to persuade the world she was right all along.
Most former prime ministers leave Downing Street relatively quietly. Lord Big Dave, the Maybot and even Boris nurse their grudges in private. Rishi lives in semi-retirement – almost a recluse – and only attends parliament when it suits him.
Keir has been almost totally airbrushed out of history in a couple of months. Liz, though, is the outlier. The last cockroach alive after a nuclear apocalypse.
Even now, she probably has a platoon of nuns locked up in her basement in south-east London where they are being forced to embroider a 70-metre tapestry dedicated to a revisionist history of her 49 days in office. One in which an old monarch dies and a new king ascends the throne. As one Elizabethan era ends so another Elizabethan era begins and a grateful nation bows down to her genius.
You have to wonder if this obsession is healthy. Most normal people might be slightly embarrassed to be remembered as the UK’s shortest serving prime minister. And by far and away the dimmest in living memory.
But Truss seems devoid of affect. If anything she seems proud of her 49 days. In Liz’s mind, she was simply too good for us.
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