Blame It on Boris

The most convenient name they, no matter from Left or Right, thought would sum­marise the Conservative crack-up was Boris Johnson’s. He’s out of headlines now, and the headlines are poorer as a result, or, they are as normal as Rishi Sunak. Even in his struggles for postponing what the commen­tariat and pollsters think is certain mortality, there is a sense of solidity and managerial sophistication. The Conservative Party, after one-and-a-half decade in power, seems to be utterly failing in catching up with the confidence of the prime minister, who owes his power not to the party but to MPs driven by anyone-but- Boris. There are Conservatives who believe what is being squandered is the historic victory authored by Johnson’s leadership, but they are treated in the media as unhinged Tories blinded by loyalty and nostalgia—maybe the last eccentrics of English politics. Even as Labour markets its leader as the next redeemer of Britain, the media tends to suspend its ideological biases when it comes to Sunak, though he is far from being the brutal economic realist who raged against the fairy-tale populism of Liz Truss in the leadership race. They all want him to succeed; they prefer his professional efficiency to Boris-style recklessness. What Britain, and certainly Conservatives, can afford is political imagination. A Conservative Blair perhaps?

Not just monarchists but even the last defenders of English fair play said Peter Morgan’s The Crown was the worst thing that ever happened to the royalty, especially the seasons featuring Charles and Diana. Now that a spectre named Jeffrey Epstein is haunting the Palace, The Crown is what offers an antidote to the sex tapes from the late Ameri­can’s “paedo island” in the Caribbean, featuring the King’s brother, Prince Andrew. As royal sleaze ani­mates both tabloids and respect­able broadsheets, monarchists are not the only ones visiting the Queen’s Gallery in Buckingham Palace. Hans Holbein the Young­er’s portraits of the Tudor court in the 16th century remain un­surpassed in the art of capturing the moods and majesty of an era. The versatile German-Swiss was the King’s painter for a reason. Henry VIII owes his posthumous poise to Holbein. He was a book designer too; the title page of Thomas More’s Utopia is a work to behold. When you see Holbein’s range, you just can’t help wondering what the later generations missed. Diana had her Bryan Organ and Queen Elizabeth II her Andy Warhol and King Charles III his Nadav Kander (all at National Portrait Gallery), but Henry VIII was luckier.

I chanced upon UnHerd. When I entered the Old Queen Street Café in Westminster one evening, what struck me was the display of a journal with one of the smartest titles I came across in journalism recently. In retro­spect, UnHerd—you got it—is an on­line publication and a brainy club, and the café is a part of the family. The first volume of their print edition is a collec­tion of essays exuding irreverence and intellectual élan, with Lionel Shriver, Bret Easton Ellis, Kathleen Stock, Ayaan Hirsi Ali and David Mamet, among others, as contributors. Some essay titles: Punk’s spirit is broken; The dark truth about Taylor Swift; Poetry has lost its violence; Let women be promiscuous; Is it racist to like big butts?; The next time Wikipedia asks for a donation, ignore it; The disastrous legacy of BLM; Young Tories are nowhere to be found; Why do so many men find God later in life? Ayaan Hirsi Ali, realising that atheism can’t equip her for civilisational war, writes why she has become a Christian: “Yet I would not be truthful if I attributed my embrace of Christianity solely to the realisation that atheism is too weak and divisive a doctrine to fortify us against our menacing foes. I have also turned to Christian­ity because I ultimately found life without any spiritual solace unen­durable—indeed very nearly self-destructive. Atheism failed to answer a simple question: what is the mean­ing and purpose of life?” As herds and tribes dominate the noise bazaar, provocations may come easy. Some in journalism still dare to provoke with the sophistication of ideas and the sensitivity of language.

Why are they still talking Saltburn at dinner parties? Maybe Emerald Fennell’s film is posh and perverse, its Englishness adding the gloss of class to a Gen Z drama that draws liberally from the tropes of sexual fantasies and serial-killer capers.

About The Author

S Prasannarajan

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