Well, here we are again folks, watching the Reform Party perform its latest act in the circus of self-sabotage—a spectacle so predictable it’s practically a British tradition, like soggy fish and chips on a windswept pier. Zia Yusuf has packed his bags and fled the big top, and who can blame him? His departure is less a headline and more a footnote in the dog-eared script of Reform’s eternal dysfunction. If anything, it might make the party fractionally more palatable, like swapping out a rancid pint for one that’s merely flat. But let’s not kid ourselves: this lot couldn’t organise a raffle at a village fete, let alone a government. They’re Ukip with a new letterhead—arrogant, paranoid, tribal, and, if I may be so bold, about as sharp as a sack of hammers.
Reform, you see, is a party destined to trip over its own shoelaces, stumbling from one self-inflicted crisis to an other with the grace of a drunken uncle at a wedding. Yusuf’s exit was as inevitable as rain on a bank holiday. He was either going to be shoved out by Farage, the ringmaster who never met a spotlight he didn’t hog, or he’d slink off in a huff, muttering about “irreconcilable differences.” Either way, it’s a nothing-burger, as the Americans say. His replacement will likely be another political genius of the Arron Banks variety—obnoxious, talentless, and so puffed up with self-regard he’d float away if you pricked him with a pin. Perfect for Reform, really. A match made in the seventh circle of political hell.
But yesterday, I daresay, was a turning point, if only because the pattern is now so glaring even the most charitable pundits can’t ignore it. Reform is a policy vacuum, a personality cult with all the depth of a kiddie pool. It’s Farage’s one-man band, and the tune is getting old. The party can scrape a few seats by riding the wave of voter disaffection—those middle-finger reflexes Uma Apio mentioned in her reply—but to what end? No serious observer of British politics, not even the ones who’ve been at the gin since breakfast, sees Reform as an answer to anything. Rupert Lowe, bless his naive little heart, is spot-on: handing Reform the keys to power would be like giving a toddler a loaded revolver and a Red Bull. Stand well back, folks.
And yet, here’s the rub: Reform might’ve had a shot at something bigger, but that ship has sailed faster than a Tory MP fleeing a scandal. Mid-term polls are a mirage, a cruel joke on the hopeful. Those who once fancied a flutter on Reform are now just as likely to stay home, nursing their disillusionment with a cuppa and a rerun of The Chase—a show, as William Poel noted, that recently plumbed new depths of intellectual despair with an Air Vice Marshal who couldn’t make it past round one. The electorate’s apathy will probably gift Labour a second term, albeit with a majority so slim it’ll look like a wafer at communion. Reform might claw a couple dozen seats where they played runner-up last time, but by then Farage will be hawking the party to the highest bidder—likely the husk of the Tory party, in a merger that’ll feel like two drunks propping each other up on the way to the kebab shop.
Where does that leave the right, you ask? In a pickle, naturally. It’s all down to whether Jenrick can stage a coup without the Tory wets dousing him in their lukewarm tears. We’ve all assumed Jenrick will replace Badenoch, but her refusal to commit to ditching the ECHR—she knows her party would rather hug a wind turbine than leave—speaks volumes. Jenrick might end up a leader without a party, while Reform remains a party without a leader worth the name. A merger seems the logical next step, but the dross on Reform’s back benches could give even the soggiest Tory wet a run for their money in the mediocrity stakes. The whole thing’s a farce, a dead end with extra gravy.
And so, the right scrambles for a credible alternative, but the raw material is as scarce as a sunny day in February. Rupert Lowe’s heart might be in the right place, but he’s as Ukippy as they come, and no amount of good intentions can make up for a lack of grey matter. The right won’t go anywhere without an intellectual renaissance, but there’s not a thinker in sight. Jenrick’s the best of a bad lot, but his party’s a write-off, and we’re left treading water until something better comes along. Maybe we’re better off enduring Labour’s mediocrity for a bit longer—better that than handing the reins to another gaggle of dysfunctional clowns and killing off any hope of real change. After all, as I’ve learned from years of watching telly, sometimes the best thing to do with a bad show is change the channel.