Ladies and gentlemen, gather round, for I, in the grand tradition of those who’ve stared too long into the abyss of British politics, must deliver a sermon from the mount of disillusionment. It’s April 2025, and the United Kingdom—once a proud bastion of tea, irony, and the occasional functioning government—has descended into a pantomime so absurd that even the most stoic of us must pause to laugh, lest we cry. I speak, of course, of the state of our political parties, those creaking institutions that promise salvation but deliver only the kind of chaos one might expect from a toddler let loose in a china shop. Let us, the nation that invented the queue, dissect this sorry spectacle.
First, to the Labour supporters, those naïve souls who, after years of clutching their red rosettes, are finally sensing that something is deeply, irrevocably wrong. I see you, comrades, peering out from behind the rubble of Keir Starmer’s 2024 victory, a triumph that promised a new dawn but delivered, instead, a damp squib of a government. You thought you’d elected a knight in shining armour, but what you got was a man who seems to govern with all the charisma of a tax return form. Your dawning realisation that the system might not be your friend is touching, really—like watching a child discover that Santa Claus is just their dad in a scratchy fake polythene beard. Welcome to the club, my dears. We’ve been expecting you.
Next, the Tories, those beleaguered foot soldiers of tradition who, after 14 years of histrionics, have either jumped ship or are clinging to the wreckage with the desperation of a shipwrecked sailor gripping a plank. Some of you have defected to Reform, that shiny new toy in the political toy box, while others remain, loyal to a party that has, in recent years, resembled less a governing force and more a particularly dysfunctional episode of Downton Abbey. Your allegiance to the Conservatives, even after the omnishambles of Theresa May, Boris Johnson, Liz Truss, and Rishi Sunak, is almost admirable—like a dog that keeps returning to its owner, even after being kicked. But let’s be honest: the Tory ship has sailed, and it’s heading straight for the iceberg of irrelevance. You might want to start swimming.
And then there are the Reform supporters, the self-styled patriots who saw through the chaos of the last few years—Brexit, COVID, the cost-of-living crisis—and decided that what this country really needs is a good dose of flag-waving and a return to some mythical golden age. You’re the ones who feel the need to express your disgust at what’s happening to our green and pleasant land, and I can’t entirely blame you. The sight of Britain in 2025—a nation where potholes outnumber functioning hospitals, and the NHS waiting list is longer than the queue for tickets for the last Oasis concert—would make anyone want to wave a Union Jack and scream into the void. But Reform, my friends, is not your saviour. It’s just another cog in the machine, a pressure valve for your discontent, designed to keep you distracted while the real game plays out elsewhere.
Because here’s the rub, dear readers: the answer isn’t a political party. Oh no. They’re all compromised, or they will be by the time they get anywhere near the levers of power. You see, anyone who makes it to Parliament must pledge allegiance to the Crown, that ancient institution that we’re all supposed to revere as the beating heart of our constitution. Now, I’m not here to debate the merits of King Charles III’s organic farming initiatives or his fondness for talking to plants—though one does wonder if the begonias have better policy ideas than our current crop of MPs.
So, what’s the solution, you ask? Well, it’s not the Green Party or the Lib Dems, I’ll tell you that much. Those poor souls are so far gone, lost in a haze of eco-warrior dreams and proportional representation fantasies, that they’re beyond saving. Good luck to them, I say, as they pedal their solar-powered bicycles into the sunset, blissfully unaware that the world is burning faster than their compost heaps. No, the answer lies in something far more radical: unity. Yes, unity—against the common enemy, that shadowy force that lurks behind the curtain of our so-called democracy. I won’t bore you with the details—partly because I’d rather you read Dr. John Coleman’s The Conspirators’ Hierarchy: The Committee of 300 for yourselves (it’s on the CIA’s website, of all places, which is either a conspiracy theorist’s dream or a very elaborate prank). But suffice it to say that the real power in this country isn’t in Westminster, or even Buckingham Palace. It’s in the hands of those who thrive on our division, who fear nothing more than the sight of us, the great unwashed, coming together to demand something better.
The political system, you see, works against us. It’s a machine designed to keep us squabbling over scraps while the real decisions are made in boardrooms and backrooms, far from the prying eyes of the electorate. The strength of unity terrifies them—those faceless puppet masters who pull the strings while we argue over whether Labour or the Tories are the lesser evil. If we could only see past the tribalism, past the party lines, we might just stand a chance. But that would require us to stop being so delightfully, quintessentially British—stop queuing politely for our own demise, stop grumbling into our tea, and start making a proper fuss. And I’m not sure we’ve got it in us anymore.
So here we are, in the spring of 2025, watching the great British political circus roll on. The clowns are in charge, the ringmaster is on holiday, and the audience is too busy arguing over the price of popcorn to notice that the tent is on fire. Labour, Tories, Reform—they’re all part of the same tired act, performing for an audience that’s too exhausted to boo. The Crown sits atop the whole sorry spectacle, a glittering distraction from the real show. And the Green Party and Lib Dems? They’re off in the corner, juggling their biodegradable principles, hoping someone will notice.
As for me, I’ll be over here, sipping my tea (with a drop something much stronger in it ...), watching the chaos unfold with the weary amusement of a man who’s seen it all before. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from 44 years of observing this mad, mad world, it’s that sometimes the only way to survive is to laugh. And if you can’t laugh at the sight of Britain in 2025—a nation where the monarchy is more political than the politicians, and the politicians are less useful than a glass cricket bat—then I’m afraid you’re not paying attention.