Tom Rachman is a contributing columnist for The Globe and Mail, and the author of The Imposters.
From the press gallery above, I peered over the House of Commons, a brass-and-oak chamber where Honourable Members from across the British Isles cram their privileged posteriors onto narrow green benches, jeering and sneering and poking papers like little lances at their foes across the aisle.
Parliament was crammed that day because of Prime Minister’s Questions, a weekly rite during which Rishi Sunak – leader of Britain, though not for long – submits to a grilling from fellow MPs, and attempts a few retorts.
A stylish, skinny and immensely rich 44-year-old, Mr. Sunak is a Conservative financier at perfect ease around a spreadsheet, but less so around people. If quizzed about deprivation, he asserts numbers. Yet today, he did not stand with his customary confidence. He seemed to dangle there, a piñata scarcely needing a wallop: soon enough, he’d fall on his own.
“What is the point of this failed government staggering on?” asked the Labour Leader, Keir Starmer, adding later: “Why does he not put it to the test and call a general election?” Not long after, Mr. Sunak obliged, declaring elections for July 4, and bizarrely making the announcement from an outdoors lectern in a drizzle, with raindrops glistening the shoulders of his navy suit. “Drowning Street,” one headline said – not only because of the cloudburst but because every poll shows the Tories facing abject defeat.
Prime Minister Rishi Sunak heads back to 10 Downing St. after his May 22 election announcement in the rain.Kin Cheung/The Associated Press
Only five years ago, the Conservatives appeared peculiarly immortal, notwithstanding the buffoonery of then-prime minister Boris Johnson, whose bully-boy slogan “Get Brexit Done” handily won his party the 2019 elections.
At the time, some commentators predicted a grim future for Labour, then led by the beardy far-leftist Jeremy Corbyn, best remembered as a bad idea with worse comrades, including antisemites and extremists. When Mr. Starmer took over, few swooned with excitement. So the earnest lawyer deployed a different strategy: to stay very still, say nearly nothing, and let the dolts in government wreck themselves.
They did so comprehensively.
In a recent YouGov poll, Britons considered how life had changed during 14 years of Conservative governance. A majority said the following had gotten worse: the cost of living, the health service, the immigration system, the economy, crime and policing, housing, Britain’s standing in the world, standards in public life, local government services, the welfare system, the armed forces, schools, transport, the tax system and British democracy itself.
You name it, and the Conservatives bungled it in the pursuit of bad ideas. But why? What for? For the answer, you may consider this a cautionary tale in five acts. Mr. Sunak finds himself as the last actor onstage, but the mess around him was left by earlier characters, four consecutive failed Tory prime ministers: a cavalier, a robot, a charlatan and a fool.
Act 1: The Cavalier (2010-16)
In his gleaming shoes, he strode as if locomotion were effortless – as if everything before him were effortless.
Youthful, bright and confident, David Cameron was the Conservative reply to Tony Blair, who had led Labour to power in 1997 and won two further elections before stepping aside in 2007 for his frenemy Gordon Brown, a brilliant but prickly Scot.
After more than a decade in power, though, Labour had exhausted its welcome. Resentment lingered over Mr. Blair’s support for the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq, and the global financial crisis had left many Brits cynical and anxious.
Mr. Cameron struck some voters as refreshing: not another balding Tory reactionary, but a slick centrist who listened to the Smiths, supported gay rights and popped with charm.
Detractors scorned his origins: yet another graduate of the elite school Eton; a member of a notorious posh-boy drinking club at Oxford; a distant relation of the Queen. Such critiques veered into class resentment.
Yet his circumstances came to matter, when he manifested a long cultural tradition among the British upper-crust: taking risks for which others must pay.
David Cameron works the phones at Remain campaign headquarters in the months leading up to a 2016 referendum on Britain's exit from the European Union.STEFAN ROUSSEAU/AFP/Getty Images
To start, Mr. Cameron’s trademark policy was “austerity,” an attempt to rescue Britain’s ailing finances by cutting public services repeatedly and severely. The needy were told to need less; the comfortable remained rather comfortable.
After winning re-election in 2015, dapper Dave became more cocksure. But something irked him: the endless carping about the European Union from a Tory fringe and an upstart right-wing nationalist party, UKIP.
UKIP’s leader, Nigel Farage, captivated the media with his pint-swigging, cigarette-puffing growls about the EU, purportedly blameworthy for much that afflicted Britain. Those shabby foreigners in Brussels, he declared – they shackled the brave Brits to their stultifying rules! If it weren’t for them, Britannia would rule the waves!
A glimpse at the world suggested that it was no longer the 1800s, however, and that an island off the mainland of Europe might wish to remain close to the 450-million-person bloc next door. Surrendering EU membership would cost billions, bring chaos to business, require years of treaty renegotiations, add reams of red tape and puncture the economy.
But for party management, Mr. Cameron gambled the country’s future on a referendum that compressed the complexity of multinational treaties on trade, on free movement and on cultural and legal and educational ties into a yes-or-no choice. Unlike Mr. Cameron, the Leave side campaigned shrewdly – and without the burden of truth. Its core falsehood was that Brexit promised riches and greatness (with fewer foreigners, too).
The cavalier lost his gamble, and the country is still paying for it. Hours after the results came in, with Leave edging out Remain, Mr. Cameron simply quit, humming a jolly tune as he left the podium after his announcement. The aftermath of his decisions would be something that everyone else would have to deal with.
Act 2: The Robot (2016-19)
A beaky trad Tory, Theresa May was part of the establishment campaign against the nuttery of Brexit. But when the Conservatives swivelled, becoming the Leave party, she did its bidding. As the saying goes: the left falls in love, the right falls in line.
”Brexit means Brexit,” she repeated like an automaton. But what exactly did that mean? A divorce may occur in varying forms, after all, from a seething schism where nobody talks again, to an amicable parting where everyone’s still hanging out.
Ms. May is no fool, which was a problem. Any version of Brexit was bad, so the best outcome was a less-Brexity Brexit. Yet her attempts at damage-limitation provoked yowls from the extremists, who glimpsed moderation and howled, “Treason!” They’d won something, so they planned to take everything.
She tried the best she could, even dancing the robot at the Conservative Party’s annual conference to ingratiate herself with the crowd. But the hardest Brexiteers cast her out for not pursuing insanity with more ardour.
They needed a leader who was either more shameless or more stupid. In turn, they got both.
Boris Johnson would govern Britain through the last stages of the Brexit talks and the first years of COVID-19.Andrew Matthews/PA via AP
Act 3: The Charlatan (2019-22)
As a little boy, Boris Johnson spoke of becoming “world king.” As an overflowing adult, he resembled a pound-store wannabe Churchill, all stammering elocutions, blond moptop and irresponsibility.
This character from an imaginary past fascinated the British public. He had trashed the EU for years as a disreputable (but highly successful) right-wing journalist, routinely making up rubbish. Once in Tory politics, he soared higher thanks to his comic appearances on TV, which were augmented by a high-reward, low-risk role as London’s mayor during the 2012 Olympics.
He did have something, though: The man drew smiles even from those who loathed him. Less humorous was his self-serving character. When it came to Brexit, he couldn’t decide whether he was for or against, but eventually went with Leave. Perhaps it seemed like more of a laugh.
Imagine this man walking into the cockpit of your flight in a pilot’s uniform. Imagine him in 10 Downing St. during a pandemic.
While COVID-19 spread globally in 2020, Mr. Johnson had different priorities, and skipped numerous emergency meetings. Where other nations rushed to protect citizens, his administration dithered and delayed, costing thousands of lives.
Finally, they established lockdown rules, which most people obeyed, including Queen Elizabeth, who physically distanced during the funeral of her beloved husband. Boris and his team, meanwhile, partied to ABBA on Downing Street.
Other scandals accumulated, most of them characterized by Mr. Johnson’s failure to take anything seriously. By the time he was ousted, the reasonable Tories had long since vanished. Hardcore Brexiteers remained, still in a fever dream of glory and gold.
They had tried shameless. Next, they tried the fool.
Liz Truss won the contest to replace Mr. Johnson after a party mutiny against him, but she would not hold his job for long.Chris J. Ratcliffe/Getty Images
Act 4: The Fool (2022)
Liz Truss launched her catastraflop stint in charge with a tax-slashing budget so reckless and unaffordable that fellow Brexiteer loons went into raptures of approval. Finally, this was it! Here was the point of Brexit! We’ll be rich!
The markets felt otherwise, and the economy crashed overnight. A tabloid newspaper streamed live footage of a lettuce, asking which would last longer: leafy vegetable or prime minister.
Ms. Truss was out after 49 days. The lettuce prevailed.
Largely a punchline today, Ms. Truss still roams the edges of politics, seemingly unperturbed by the damage she caused her country. Lately, she has rebranded herself as a Trumpist, looking for love in Washington. She had the gall to publish a book called Ten Years to Save the West.
I’d rather read a memoir by the lettuce.
King Charles III – who acceded to the throne only seven weeks earlier – welcomes Mr. Sunak, his second prime minister, to Buckingham Palace in the fall of 2022.AARON CHOWN/POOL/AFP via Getty Images
Act 5: The Loser (2022-present)
In the aftermath of Ms. Truss’s leadership, the Conservative Party – still governing with its 2019 election majority – resorted to a hedge-fund bro to save the economy. Rishi Sunak did stabilize matters. But he wanted popularity of his own.
So he edged into politicking, pushing a ludicrous plan to deport immigrants to Rwanda regardless of their place of origin, with the goal of frightening others from coming. Aside from the moral objections to such an approach, it proved wildly expensive, is probably illegal and has yet to result in a single flight.
Mr. Sunak has also pitched another mayday initiative: mandatory national service for the young. At a televised election debate, audience members laughed at the notion. They know the truth: Mr. Sunak won’t be around to implement any such thing.
The next act (2024-?)
In private, Labour Leader Keir Starmer is witty, they say. We’ll have to take their word for it.
In public, the 61-year-old is rigid and stern, hair slicked aside, pale rectangular face creased with a frown, adenoidal voice pinched, as if struggling to suppress exasperation. The son of a toolmaker and a nurse (as he constantly tells voters), Mr. Starmer was a human-rights lawyer, then the director of public prosecutions, for which he was knighted.
Sir Keir is many things – but he is not a people’s pol. He is, however, ruthless. He bided his time within Jeremy Corbyn’s shadow cabinet, then won the party leadership, purged the Corbynistas, and oversaw the expulsion of Mr. Corbyn himself from the party, all in a calculated shift toward centrist electability.
Oddly – or wisely – he avoids detailing his plans for this country. Above all, he dismisses the prospect of revisiting Brexit. Many Labour supporters in poorer parts of Britain voted Leave, and Mr. Starmer fears losing them again.
A huge electoral victory could change much. After all, he was devoted to Mr. Corbyn once. Could he act radically once in power?
The public doesn’t really know, partly because of the ferocious right-wing press here, which shoulders political debate toward the preferences of its wealthy owners. When much of what Mr. Starmer says will be deliberately mischaracterized, his “no comment” strategy may be the best approach. However, the effect is disturbing: a democracy where the winning political strategy is either dishonesty or obfuscation.
Mr. Starmer, once a shadow minister under Jeremy Corbyn, has spent his leadership purging Labour of Corbynite influences that could scare off centrist voters.Thierry Monasse/Getty Images
In any case, the Tories are losing. Polls have consistently forecast the worst Conservative result in history, expecting the party to fall from its majority in the last election of 365 of Parliament’s 650 seats to around 100 this time. Labour could double its current 202 seats, and maybe even exceed the 418-seat majority achieved under Mr. Blair in Labour’s 1997 landslide.
Yet the historical precedent that British pundits evoke is the 1993 Canadian election, when the Progressive Conservatives under Kim Campbell crashed out after nine years in power under Brian Mulroney, going from 156 seats to near-oblivion with two, and prompting a realignment of federal politics.
One of the victors of that election – Preston Manning’s populist-right Reform Party – serves as an inspiration to the Trump-tickling nationalist behind Brexit, the aforementioned Mr. Farage. He met with Mr. Manning in years past, and he now leads a revamped nationalist party called Reform UK. Some polls show his outfit nearing or even exceeding the support of the Conservatives.
For the right, this election looks like a debacle. For the far right, it looks like an opportunity.
The epilogue
Far away from the raucous House of Commons, I travelled by train recently to see the city of Hull in Yorkshire and the borough of Sandwell outside Birmingham, two of the most deprived places in Britain.
What struck me as I passed through the roughest neighbourhoods was how sickly many people seemed. I saw twentysomethings missing teeth and hobbling with canes; I saw others so unfit that they needed mobility scooters. Families huddle in community centres in the wintertime for the heat they can’t afford at home. Food banks are busier than ever.
Yet I was also struck by the spirit I found there – the grit and camaraderie, even pride in those lost areas that had been condemned to an unequal education system, to hopeless job prospects, to a fearful health care system that takes weeks, months or even years for people to reach help.
Locals scoffed when I asked them about government initiatives to help such areas. Officials promise much – then drift away. In such places, many people voted for Brexit, yearning for any hopeful glimmer, perhaps the promised funding for doctors and nurses, or the other mirages presented by Leave campaigners. They chose Brexit because many thought: how could life get worse?
But it can always get worse. And it has.
The British public – sold bankrupting tickets to a glorious spectacle – have instead witnessed a fiasco with a collapsing set, and they haven’t been able to leave their seats. At last, that play is closing.
But Britain must never again attempt a theatrical revival of its past. The present will punish that. Enough with grandiloquent plots, and enough with “characters.” A country is no playhouse.
BENJAMIN CREMEL/AFP via Getty Images
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