IT IS NOT a political farce after Brexit. It is perhaps a Shakespearean passage interrupted by the lurid realism of tabloid London, but, nevertheless, a political junkie’s eternal delight, a voyeur’s most rewarding peephole. The days and nights after 23 June saw the epochal set against the trivial, the cathartic against the bathetic, the moral against the brutal, the principle against the personal, and in the grim alleys of realpolitik, ghosts lurked, knives waited, blood was shed, and the assassin’s cheque bounced. Before the EU became smaller, the United Kingdom unravelled, and the day after liberation, the losers in Westminster united on a stage littered with the fallen winners. What was it, asked the disillusioned, a pub dispute between posh boys? Or a class war that migrated from the streets…
